Time Out of Joint
by DarkestSight
Summary: Rip is lost. Will he be able to find both himself and his way home?
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Written for Rip Appreciation Week on tumblr. It's a weird timey-wimey fic, but not, as some people might suspect, a fix-it. I'm pretty much ignoring all of season 3 at this point. They'll be about 7 chapters and half are already written so more should be up soon. Enjoy!_

 _The time is out of joint; O curs'd spite,_

 _That ever I was born to set it right!_

 _\- Hamlet_

 **Chapter 1**

 _All he could see was green, swirling, churning, shimmering green. It embraced him, carried him away like the currents of a river. He drifted along its flowing length, and drifted, and drifted, and drifted. There were voices crying out, yelling something, yelling at him? But they were so far away and he was lost in the swirling, churning, shimmering green._

 _Somewhere a clock ticked._

 _And the world shifted._

Half hidden in the shadows of a narrow alleyway, Michael peered out into the street.

The street was busy, full of horse drawn carriages, handsome cabs and loaded wagons rattling along, the hollow clip clop sound of iron shoes against cobbles echoing between the stone buildings. People, men in dark suits and hats, women wrapped in long dresses, strolled along the sidewalk drifting in and out of shops. Some strode with purpose, intent on their errands. Others meandered slowly, lost in their own thoughts. All were much too preoccupied to notice the small boy watching them.

Michael wiped a filthy hand across a filthy nose. He was seven, or so he believed, but so small most people assumed he was younger, and so pale and thin he looked like not much more than a pile of bones wrapped in rags. His clothing hung off him in multiple tattered layers. His shoes, which were several sizes too big, were held on with twine.

Taking a breath of the fetid air, he searched through the crowd.

Nowhere else in space or time smelled quite like Victorian London. It had its own unique stench, a combination of horse dung, coal smoke, and overflowing sewage, an odd thought to cross Michael's mind considering he had never been anywhere other than London in his short life.

This was all he knew.

This was all he remembered.

A ray of sunshine peeked through the gray clouds and glinted off the watch chain on the waistcoat of a portly gentleman rushing past. Michael took it as a sign and hurried after him, slipping easily through the bustling people and following behind the man as he waited for the right opportunity.

Eventually, the man stopped and took out his watch to check the time.

The sight of the watch was enough to start Michael salivating. He licked his lips as he briefly debated whether or not to go for the silk handkerchief poking out of the pocket above it as well. He decided, though, not to push his luck.

The gentleman upon seeing the time frowned, obviously not liking what he saw, and raised an arm to hail a cab.

This was what Michael had been waiting for. While the gentleman was trying to catch the eye of a cabbie, Michael drew nearer, and spotting a woman trying to pass by, shoved her towards him.

The woman cried out stumbling forward and the man automatically reached out to catch her. There was the expected amount of confusion as apologies were exchanged, and while they were busy doing that, Michael slipped around, and with deft fingers, reached between them, first detaching the chain from the waistcoat button hole, and then gently pulling the watch out of the pocket.

He swiftly dropped the watch into his own pocket and headed away from the gentlemen intent on disappearing into the crowd, moving quickly but not so quickly he would draw attention to himself.

He was sure he had gotten away with it. He was sure, but he had only taken half a dozen steps when a cry arose from behind him.

"Hey, you! Stop! My watch! He's stolen my watch!"

Michael ran.

A passerby tried to grab him, but he dodged out of the way, ducking and weaving. He wove in and out of the crowd hoping to get lost in it. The gentleman he'd stolen the watch from, however, didn't seem interested in giving up. The sound of his pounding footsteps and puffing lungs only grew closer.

Fortunately, no one knew these streets like Michael did.

There was an alleyway up ahead, and with a sharp turn, he headed down it. The alley was barely two feet wide and he nearly knocked over a man coming in the other direction, just managing to duck under his arm in time. Once through, he made another sharp turn, and then another diving into a deep doorway.

There he hunkered down and made himself as small as possible, lungs heaving heavily as he waited.

And waited.

A minute passed and another. The gentleman didn't appear. Once he felt it was safe enough, Michael uncurled his body and craned his neck out into the street checking both direction.

The coast was clear.

Grinning a self-satisfied grin, Michael pulled out the watch and ran his fingers across the smooth surface. It was a fairly plain watch, the face hidden by a hinged cover, but it was made of real silver and he knew a fellow or two who would give him enough for it to keep him in meat pies for a few weeks. His empty stomach growled in anticipation. He hadn't had anything to eat but a small bruised apple in two days.

Placing his fingers around the cover of the watch, he tried to pry it open so he could check the dial.

"Oy!" a voice cried out.

Heart pounding, Michael shoved the watch back in his pocket and looked up expecting to see the gentleman he had stolen the watch from. What he saw was much worse.

"There you are, Mickey," said a young man, giving him a leer as he leaned over him.

It was Samson, a solidly built youth with slicked back hair and a pockmarked face, several years older than Michael and just as filthy though with slightly less ragged clothes.

"Ain't seen you in awhile. What you been up to? Got anything for me?"

Michael quickly shook his head. "I ain't got nothing."

Samson's smirk grew wider. "Is that so?"

He dove for Michael grabbing at him. Michael tried to squirm away making use of his small size, but Samson was quick and soon had a solid grip on his arm.

"Let's see, shall we?" said Samson as he began groping through Michael's clothes.

It didn't take him long to find the watch.

"Holding out on me, eh?" Samson turned the watch over in his hands. "Not bad. Should be able to get a pretty penny out of it down at the pawn shop."

"That's mine!" Michael cried, struggling in the youth's grip.

"I'm sure that's what the geezer you stole it from thought too," said Samson, letting out a snort.

Rage built up in Michael.

Too many times had this happened. Too many times had he found something only to have someone larger and stronger take it away from him.

While Samson was intent on the watch, Michael used his free hand to reach into the waistband of his trousers and pulled out the knife hidden there. It was a rusty, somewhat dull blade, but it had helped fend off more than a few of the older boys, some who were even less gentle in their requests than this one.

Michael slashed upward, the blade catching Samson's arm.

Samson cried out and dropped the watch. He didn't, however, release his hold on Michael.

"You little wanker," said Samson, examining the cut on his arm which was beginning to seep blood. "You'll pay for that."

He raised his fist.

As the punches and kicks began to rain down, Michael curled into a ball, trying and failing to stifle his cries, praying it would be over soon. Through half closed lids, he spotted the watch nearby. The cover had burst open when it had hit the ground and the dial was now visible.

The time was...

 _He was back in the green again, the eternal swirling, churning, shimmering green. Maybe he had never left. Maybe he had always been there drifting aimlessly along the swirling streams. It was all he knew, all he had ever known. All else seemed mere shadows of dreams._

" _Rip? Rip!" one of the voices called out growing loud enough for him to hear._

 _Who was Rip? He wondered_

 _The green embraced him and he let it carry him away._

 _The clock ticked once more._

Michael Car... No, Rip Hunter sat in the library at the Time Master academy and fidgeted impatiently.

Rip Hunter, because that was his name now. He had chosen it a long time ago when he was still a teenager and dreaming about being a Time Master, but he had only been using it a year and sometimes it still felt strange to him, like it didn't quite fit. But the new name was a good thing. It was a way of making a new start and cutting all ties to the past. That was what you were meant to do as a Time Master, cut all ties and avoid all attachments so you couldn't be compromised. That was what you needed to do to serve the Council and protect the timeline which was what Rip wanted to do more than anything.

Of course, he was never going to be able to if his blasted study partner didn't show up soon. What he had done to be saddled with her of all people he'd never know.

Rip shuffled the books on the table in front of him and tapped his foot as he gazed around the library.

The Time Master library was immense, the study hall he currently sat in only a small part of it. Metal and glass made up most of the structure. Tall pillars led up to a high arching ceiling and multiple windows let streams of sunlight through giving the place the air of a metallic cathedral. The architecture was a mixture of the classical and the extreme modern like the library's contents which ranged from ancient scrolls and tablets to immense databases held on tiny crystals. As a child, Rip wouldn't have even been able to conceive of such a place. Now, it was almost normal.

Across the hall, he saw a woman enter the room. She gazed about, and upon seeing him, headed over with hasty footsteps.

"Sorry, I'm late," Miranda said as she took the seat across from him. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."

"Not at all, Miss Coburn," said Rip, doing his best to keep his tone polite if not quite succeeding. "I've only been waiting for what? Ten? Twenty minutes?"

Miranda gave him a side long look, clearly detecting the irritation in his voice. "I lost track of the time. I was talking to Professor Nguyen about joining his squadron next year and I'm afraid we got somewhat absorbed in our discussion."

Rip's eyes widened. "You're joining the Flyers?" The Time Flyers were a group of the most elite timeship pilots at the academy. They did performances of aeronautical acrobatics throughout the year.

"That's my intention," Miranda replied, airily, "and considering I received one of the highest scores ever on my piloting test, my position on the team is pretty much assured."

Rip bristled. Piloting was an area in which Miranda had always managed to trounce him. He had done well enough on his piloting test, better than a lot of his classmates, but Miranda flew as if she were born to it. In most areas, she and Rip were fairly evenly matched, constantly vying for the top spot in the class, save for the flying and one other exception. Rip held a fair amount of satisfaction in the fact Miranda had never been able to beat him at the shooting range.

"Shall we get started then?" said Miranda as she pulled a tablet out of her bag.

The bag was full of books and tablets and various other things needed for her classes. Rip's bag was similarly stuffed though a lot less tidily as was evident by the things poking out of it. Miranda had always been much more organized than Rip. Another thing about her that infuriated him.

"The project is to choose a particular region and time period, and create a detailed plan for infiltration," Miranda continued.

Rip nodded and opened one of his history books. "Yes, I was considering various locations while I waited for you and I thought somewhere in the United States during the 19th or perhaps 20th century would be—"

"Really?" interrupted Miranda, eyebrows raised scornfully.

Rip flung his hands into the air in exasperation. "What?"

Placing her elbows on the table, Miranda leaned towards him. "You need to learn how to think outside the box, Mr. Hunter. Isn't infiltrating the 20th century a little too easy?"

"It's a time period I happen to be particularly interested in."

"That may be, but wouldn't you prefer something a bit more challenging?"

Rip's forehead furrowed. "Challenging?"

"Unless you don't think you're up to it," Miranda added, mockingly.

Rip grit his teeth, only just managing to keep his temper. "Not at all. What did you have in mind?"

"Well," said Miranda, "how about Greece? Perhaps the 5th century BC during the invention of the Athenian democracy? Infiltrating a time period that ancient during such an upheaval should prove a lot more interesting."

Rip didn't want to admit it, but that did sound quite appealing. Of course, he had no intention of being outdone.

"We could choose ancient Greece," he said as he rested his elbows on the table and leaned towards her, mirroring her pose. "If you think going to one of the most studied areas of the ancient world difficult, or we could go somewhere really challenging."

Miranda's eyes narrowed. "What did you have in mind?"

"West Africa," said Rip. "9th century, the Kingdom of Nri."

Miranda looked doubtful. "In case you've forgotten," she said and pointed a finger at her fair features, then his. "It would be nearly impossible for us to infiltrate such a place during that time period without drawing attention to ourselves."

Rip raised his eyebrows pointedly. "I thought you wanted a challenge."

Miranda stared at him a moment, and then nodded. "The Kingdom of Nri it is." Her eyes sparkled and her lips twisted into an impish smile. "I take back what I said earlier. I like the way you think, Mr. Hunter."

God, how he had always loved that smile, thought Rip, and then he blinked wondering where that thought had come from. He and Miranda had never been more than classmates and rivals. Entertaining such thoughts when attachments were so strictly forbidden by the Time Masters was practically treasonous.

He cleared his throat and quickly straightened up. "Uh, yes, thank you." He fumbled with the book in front of him as he tried to regain his composure. "We should really get to work."

"Of course," said Miranda. "How much time do we have left before our next class?"

Rip glanced at a clock hanging on the far wall.

The time was...

 _The green again. It was like a raging storm, pulling at him one moment, whipping around him the next, but there was something almost comforting about it, something almost familiar. He had stared into this abyss before, and now he had lost his way inside it, lost his way and lost himself._

 _How did you find yourself when you floated anchorless in a void of green?_

 _The voices were calling again, but he couldn't make out what they were saying._

 _Tick tock went the clock._

"Careful!"

A hand grabbed Rip's arm yanking him backwards and out of the path of a yellow minibus. The minibus rushed past, its driver waving his hand angrily and yelling something Rip was glad he couldn't make out.

"You'd better watch your step. The last thing I want is to have to tell the team I let our captain get run over by a bus."

Rip turned to gaze at his rescuer. "Thank you, Miss Lance. I guess my mind was somewhere else."

"I'll say," replied Sara, gazing at him over the top of her sunglasses. "What were you thinking about?"

What had he been thinking about? Rip wondered. He'd been thinking about Miranda, hadn't he? Recalling an old project they had worked on together during their academy days.

He gazed through the crowded street at the stream of yellow minibuses going by and the colourful umbrellas shading the line of market stalls.

Maybe it was this place that had brought the memory back to him. After all, Lagos wasn't that far from where the Kingdom of Nri had once stood though there was little left of it in 2011.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just concerned about the mission."

Sara shook her head. "You worry too much. You need to learn how to relax." She popped a puff puff into her mouth as if to demonstrate how.

She had acquired a bagful of the deep fried pastries from one of the vendors as they'd strolled past. Food was just one of the many things that could be purchased at the street market. Piles of goods covered the various tables, mounds of fruit and patterned cloth, brightly coloured plastic toys and beaded jewellery, stacks of DVDs and magazines. Normally Rip would have been tempted to acquire something new for his collection, but his mind was on other things.

"I have a very valid reason for concern," said Rip as they continued moving along the crowded street. "In case, you've forgotten we failed in our objective. We weren't able to retrieve the artifact and if anyone were to discover that that so called diamond is in fact an incredibly powerful 29th century dark energy generator, then—"

"Then it could permanently damage the timeline," Sara finished for him. "I know. It's not our fault the guy didn't want to sell. We should have known it wouldn't be so easy."

Rip let out a snort. "True, since when has anything we've ever done been easy."

He really had hoped bartering with the man who had acquired the diamond for his personal collection would work, but the man had refused despite the large amounts of gold Rip and Sara had offered. It seems the man already had plenty. His large mansion with its white walls and tall columns was a big contrast to the colourful and chaotic market they were currently walking through. Rip and Sara had been posing as wealthy foreign investors, and he was very aware of how their expensive clothing and the colour of their skin made them stand out, but Sara had insisted on travelling through the market on their way back to the ship.

"So we go with plan B," she said with a shrug.

Rip rolled his eyes. "Ah, yes. Plan B, thievery. I'm sure Mr. Rory will be ecstatic."

"It'll help keep his mind off things. You know how he's been since..." she trailed off.

"...since we lost Snart," Rip finished for her. He sighed. The loss was one he'd rather not think about, one of several. He gazed at Sara who was eating another one of the round puff puffs. "How are you managing? I know it's been difficult what with—"

"I'm managing," Sara said curtly, cutting him off, and then she sighed. "How are you... managing?" She had never been good at talking about feelings.

"I'm managing," Rip replied softly. He supposed it was all any of them could do after the loses they'd been dealt. "I'll feel better once this mission is over with though."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Like I said, you worry too much. This isn't our first heist and it's not like there's an army of meta-humans standing between us and our goal."

"I know. I just have a bad feeling about this."

Sara stopped walking and gazed at him with raised eyebrows. "I knew I shouldn't have let Ray show you Star Wars."

Rip gave her an exasperated look.

Sara smiled sweetly back at him and held out a pastry. "Puff puff?"

Rip sighed, but he took the offered treat.

"Seriously, Rip," said Sara as they continued on, Rip munching his pastry, "you have nothing to worry about."

"If you say so," Rip replied. "What time is it? We really should be getting back to the ship so we can plan our heist."

Sara pulled her phone out of her pocket. The phone was a few years ahead of its time but Rip didn't comment. The Legends had brought future tech to far worse time periods.

Taking off her sunglasses, Sara squinted at the phone. "It's..."

 _Green, so much green swirling around him, but there was something else too, something beyond the green. He could only just make it out. He tried focusing on it, but it remained elusive, there but not there, and yet he felt it was something, some place he should have known._

" _Rip, can you hear me?"_

 _That voice. He knew that voice too, or should have known it._

 _A name floated up out of memory. He opened his mouth to say it, but somewhere in the distance the clock ticked and he was taken away._

Phil Gasmer started up in bed and groaned.

"Not again."

Another one of those damn dreams.

He ran his hands over his face as he tried to recall what had happened in his latest nighttime vision. It was already fading. He, no not him, Rip Hunter had been in some sort of market with... a woman? It had been her again, hadn't it? S... S... The name was there on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite... Sandra? Maybe. She and Rip had been wandering through a market in... Africa?

Phil glanced over at the remains of the joint sitting in the ashtray on his bedside table and frowned.

What the hell had he been smoking last night?

The drugs were supposed to help stop the crazy dreams, but they just seemed to be making things worse. The dreams had been haunting him for what seemed like ages. Some were fairly benign like the one he'd just had, but others were pure night terrors. If only he could remember more clearly what happened in them. That would at least be something. Instead, he was plagued by these half-formed images, images he really wanted out of his head.

Phil pushed aside the covers and swung his legs over the side of his bed. Turning on his bedside lamp revealed the surroundings of his tiny cluttered apartment, its avocado green and pale yellow decor hidden beneath a mess of dirty laundry, half-finished food, and crumpled paper. He kicked one of the bits of paper aside. The increasing mounds of it were a testament to how well the writing of his thesis film was going.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He really didn't want to go back to sleep. He didn't want to have to put up with another one of those dreams. The last one still lingered on the edge of his brain.

Maybe a midnight snack would help, he mused. There should be something at least vaguely edible in his fridge.

He got to his feet, took a step forward, and promptly tripped falling flat on his face.

"God damn it!"

Groaning, he rolled onto his back.

What the hell had he tripped over?

He fumbled about on the floor through the scattered clutter until his fingers closed on something long and thin. He picked it up and held it in front of his face.

It was a piece of wood.

Phil groaned again.

Why did he still have this stupid stick? It wasn't much use for anything other than a back scratcher. He couldn't even remember where he had gotten it from.

Getting back up, he took the stick over to the trash can, but just as he was about to throw it out, he stopped.

He felt strangely reluctant to get rid of the thing though he couldn't say why. He turned the stick over in his hand. It was a pretty odd bit of wood actually. The one jagged edge made it look like it had been broken off something bigger. The rest was smooth like a pole or a broom handle or the shaft of a spear.

Furrows deepened in Phil's forehead.

A spear... Where had that idea come from? It was, of course, completely absurd, and yet... What if it was true? Imagine what would happen if someone really had a bit of wood that was actually part of an ancient spear, a magic spear, a spear of destiny.

Phil's eyes shone as ideas began percolating in his brain. The stick. Those bizarre dreams. The man who kept turning up in them, the one he'd called Rip Hunter, and that woman, Sandra...

"That's it!" he exclaimed, and then he quickly put his hands over his mouth and looked guiltily up at the ceiling.

No sound came from upstairs, his neighbour's sleep thankfully remaining undisturbed.

Trying to be a little more quiet, Phil headed for the corner of his apartment where his desk was buried and pulled a paisley patterned shirt off his typewriter. The keys gleamed invitingly up at him.

Paper!

He gazed desperately around the room.

Please say he hadn't used up all the paper.

Eventually, he was able to locate a few uncrumpled pieces. He threaded one into the typewriter and sat down.

His fingers wiggled in anticipation over the keyboard.

He was going to get all those dreams out of his head. He was going to get the dreams out and write his thesis film. Two birds with one stone.

But what to call it?

After staring at the blank paper a moment, Phil finally typed 'Legends of Tomorrow'.

He made a face. It wasn't great but it would have to do for now.

He began typing away, the keys clacking noisily, the words flowing out of his fingers and onto the page. It was as if a dam had broken loose in his head and all these ideas were finally spilling out.

Realizing it was probably going to be a long night, Phil glanced over at his alarm clock.

The dial said it was...

 _It pulled him away once more, the green, the shimmering green. It invaded his mind, invaded his very being pushing everything else away._

 _These glimpses he kept seeing... What were they? They felt important, and yet it was hard to focus on them. They were glimpses of a life. His life? But if they were, then who was he? Michael or Rip or Phil?_

 _He tried to concentrate, but there seemed to be as much chaos inside his head as there was outside it._

 _Hoping for answers, he let himself drift away once more with the tick of the clock._


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: Thanks to lakariana and DarkRed101 for the lovely reviews! (PS lakariana, your wish is granted!)_

 **Chapter 2**

Rip stepped out of the saloon and into the dusty street, shading his eyes from the bright morning sun. The sun was already well over the horizon, and people were out and about, bustling to and fro between the wooden buildings which lined the street, well, bustling as much as they did in such a small town. Apparently, he had slept longer than he had meant too. So much for getting an early start.

A stab of pain shot through his head and he grimaced.

How much had he drunk last night? It hadn't seemed that much at the time, but the ache in his head seemed to indicate otherwise. He made note to be a little more careful with the local moonshine in future.

A stage coach drifted along the street in front of him kicking up dust along its path, horses' reins jangling and wheels creaking. A couple women passed by with empty buckets heading for the well to collect water, and a young boy ran from one building to another, a letter clutched tightly in his hand.

It was all perfectly normal, or at least, normal for Oklahoma in 1868, and yet, something felt off.

Rip scanned the area, but he couldn't pinpoint the source of his unease. More people passed by, all seeming perfectly fine. If trouble was coming, no one else seemed aware of it.

Maybe nothing was wrong with the town. Maybe something was wrong with him.

After all as much as he loved it there, he didn't belong. His mission was over. It had been over weeks ago, and yet he was still there. He knew he should leave. He should head back to the Waverider and take off immediately, and yet...

There was something about this place, this time. He felt connected to it, like he belonged. Everything, the horses, the wooden buildings, even the feel and smell of the leather clothing, felt so right. More importantly, this was a place where he felt he could actually make a difference, where he could help people instead of simply putting the timeline back the way it should be.

Was that so wrong?

But if he stayed, it would mean he would have to give up being a Time Master, give up everything he had strived for for so long. It would mean leaving the Waverider to waste away. It would mean abandoning Gideon. It would mean never seeing Miranda or their son again.

Rip blinked and shook his head in confusion.

Son? He and Miranda didn't have a son. They hadn't even talked about marriage let alone having children. Did he even want children? A sudden pang hit his heart as he realized he very much would.

"What's going on in that thick head of yours?"

Startled, Rip turned to see Jonah gazing at him questioningly. He had been so lost in thought he hadn't even heard the cowboy sneak up on him.

"I was just, uh, thinking."

Jonah snorted. "If you ask me, you think too much."

"Well, one of us has to," Rip replied, lips twisting into a wry smile.

Jonah's eyebrows raised as he gave Rip a suitably unimpressed look. "At least you finally got your lazy ass out of bed. I thought you were going to sleep all day. Couldn't take Miss Janice's fire water, huh?"

"I was merely tired from yesterday's excursions."

Jonah gave a smirk. "Keep telling yourself that, kid."

Rip scowled. He really wished Jonah would stop calling him that. He might be younger than the cowboy, but he wasn't a kid. He was twenty-three. And just because he had made a few mistakes when he first arrived and Jonah had needed to bail him out, didn't mean he was some greenhorn. This era had simply taken a little getting used to.

"While you were getting your beauty sleep, I managed to get us some information," Jonah continued. "You remember those ruffians that've been terrorizing people here abouts."

Rip nodded. Several people travelling into town had been robbed and even killed by what they'd determined to be the same gang of bandits.

"I got a lead on their camp. Thought I'd go take care of it." As Jonah said the last, he removed the revolver from his hostler and spun it around as if to make clear exactly what he meant by 'take care of'. "You in?"

Rip hesitated. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't, but...

"I could use the help," said Jonah, "and you've proven a decent shot even if you can't ride a horse to save your life."

Rip rolled his eyes. "I only fell off the once."

"Twice."

"The second time wasn't my fault!"

"Whatever you say," replied Jonah, shaking his head. "So you coming?"

As Rip watched, Jonah's face seemed to flicker and change, and a grotesque series of scars appeared etched across the right side of the cowboy's face.

Rip blinked and rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, the scars were gone.

Maybe he really had drunk too much the previous night.

Jonah was still waiting expectantly for his answer.

The chance to save the day with Jonah one last time?

"Alright," said Rip, hoping he wouldn't regret it. "I'm with you."

One last time, he promised himself, just one last time, and then he would leave.

Jonah grinned and slapped him on the back. "Glad to hear it. You'd better get yourself some breakfast. We head out in ten."

The cowboy sauntered off leaving Rip to fend for himself.

Rip watched him go, smiling fondly. He knew he would have to leave at some point, but thankfully, it was not that day.

A clock hung over the sheriff's office. Rip glanced at it to check how much time he had.

It was...

 _This time he almost cried out as the green maelstrom yanked him away. He hadn't wanted to leave that place. He'd been happy there, there in... Where was it? The memories kept slipping away as if the swirling green were pulling them from him._

 _The voices called again and he caught another glimpse of the place beyond the swirling green. It was familiar and somehow important, and yet he couldn't remember it._

 _Was that where he was or where he was meant to be?_

 _Before he could figure it out, the clock ticked and he was carried away once more._

Rip stood in front of the Waverider's entrance ramp, frowning as he watched the much smaller timeship land in the grassy field in front of him.

He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all, and if there had been any other way... But there hadn't been. The Waverider was essentially dead in the water. It would take weeks to fix the damage done to it and his current 'cargo' was too important to be left lying around, which was why, much to Rip's chagrin, he had been forced to call on the Time Council for help.

And unfortunately, the help they had sent was the very last he would have chosen.

Dust and grass flew as the ship set down and its engines cut out. The timeship wasn't only smaller than the Waverider, but rougher too, less streamlined, its hull dull and weathered, a lot like the appearance of its owner. The ship's hatch creaked loudly as it opened and the dark shape of the pilot was revealed.

Rip repressed a shiver. He had never been entirely comfortable around the Council's bounty hunters, Chronus least of all. There had always seemed to be something not quite... right about him.

Chronus, his rough, black armour covering him from head to toe, marched towards Rip, his ever present laser rifle slung over his shoulder.

"You have the prisoner," said the bounty hunter. It was a statement more than a question, the mechanical voice completely devoid of emotion.

Rip wasn't sure if Chronus used a voice synthesizer or if there was in fact something partly mechanical about him. There were rumours about what the Council did to their bounty hunters, various enhancements, both biological and mechanical, that were done to them to make them more powerful. Given what the bounty hunters were capable of, it was quite possible they were true.

There were other rumours too, rumours about things that had been done to the hunters' minds. Rip refused to believe the Council would willingly do such things, but sometimes when he was in the presence of one of the bounty hunters and he looked into their blank gazes, he would wonder...

Rip cleared his throat. "Yes, this way," he said, gesturing to the interior of the Waverider. Chronus' presence seemed to be unnerving him even more than usual for some reason.

He led the way into the ship and through the corridors to the brig. Chronus remained silent the whole time, the clunk of the bounty hunter's metal boots against the deck plates the only way Rip was able tell he was still following him. A knot of tension invaded Rip's back and he was forced to keep reminding himself the man was on his side.

Evidence of Rip's recent difficulties were everywhere during their short journey: scattered bits of debris, cracked bulkheads revealing hidden circuitry, bundles of cables hanging down and letting off sparks. The recent battle hadn't been easy, but at least, it had been successful.

As they entered the brig, its occupant, who was seated on the bench at the far back of the cell, looked up. Talwar Kholi, captain of the Kali and one of the most feared time pirates in the entire timeline, sneered at Rip, and then he saw who was behind him and his face went ashen.

"What the hell is this?" he said as he sprang to his feet.

"This," said Rip, "is your escort to the nice, comfy prison cell waiting for you back at the Vanishing Point. I'd say it's been a pleasure having you as my guest, Captain, but I can't."

"What happened to you taking me?"

"Unfortunately, the damage your ship did to mine has made that a tad difficult, so Chronus here"—Rip gestured to the bounty hunter—"will be filling in."

Eyes never leaving Chronus, Talwar approached Rip, stopping only when he reached the edge of the cell. "Hunter, you can't seriously be sending me off with this... maniac."

Rip was unimpressed. "I'm afraid you gave up any choice in such matters when you attempted to wipe out the Aztec empire two centuries early just so you could get your hands on their gold."

"They were going to die out anyway," the pirate protested. "Seriously, if you think I'm going to let—"

"Enough," Chronus interrupted. "We're wasting time. Open the cell."

The order made Rip bristle, but he obeyed anyway wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.

"You'll pay for this, Hunter," the pirate growled, "for what you did to my ship and for leaving me with this monster."

"Chronus is not the monster here," said Rip, stonily, as he typed the release code into the panel on the cell door.

As soon as the cell was unlocked, Chronus shoved Rip aside and went in.

"Captain Rip Hunter, so high and mighty," said Talwar, backing towards the far end of his cell and away from the approaching bounty hunter. "You think your Time Master bosses are so righteous, but you have no idea. You have no clue what sort of things they've done. I'll find a way out of your fucking Vanishing Point and I'll—"

Chronus made a grab for Talwar, but the pirate dodged out of the way, obviously having no intention of going quietly. Chronus tried again and this time an armour-clad hand caught ahold of Talwar's arm. Talwar fought to get away. There was a struggle, but it was over quickly, and soon the pirate captain lay unconscious on the floor, a stream of blood trailing from his lip.

Chronus flipped Talwar over without an ounce of gentleness and clamped a set of handcuffs on the pirate's wrists. He then proceed to haul him out of the cell, letting the body drag along the ground.

Rip held no love for Captain Kholi but still the rough treatment made him wince. "Careful," he said, grabbing a hold of Chronus' arm as he passed. "I'm fairly certain the Time Council wants him in one piece."

Stopping, Chronus turned towards him, and Rip suddenly found himself gazing right into the emotionless mask covering the bounty hunter's face. For a moment, he thought he saw something through the helmet's glass lenses, a glimmer of light like a flickering flame, and he felt an odd stab of guilt. It shot through him from out of nowhere.

Rip quickly removed his hand from Chronus' arm.

"I'll see myself out," the bounty hunter said coldly, and he resumed dragging the pirate out of the brig.

Rip watched him go, feeling shaken.

"Are you alright, Captain?" asked a voice from above.

"I'm... I'm fine, Gideon," Rip replied, not wanting to admit how unsettled he was even to her.

It wasn't just Chronus who had unnerved him. Talwar's final words were bothering him too. What had he meant when he said Rip didn't know what sort of things the Time Masters did? There had always been things they did which Rip didn't fully agree with. There was a reason the cognitive intrusion device the Waverider had come equipped with was still packed away in its box in the cargo bay. But had Talwar meant something else, something worse? Just thinking about it sent a cold feeling through him.

He rubbed his temple, an ache developing there.

"I believe it would be in your best interests to take a break before you continue with the repairs," said Gideon.

"Perhaps you're right," said Rip. He wanted to get the repairs done quickly so he could get back to Miranda and Jonas as soon as possible, but a cup of tea would probably go a long way in settling his nerves, and maybe something to eat. When had he last ate? He couldn't remember. "What time is it?"

"The time is..."

 _Torn away by the swirling green again, but that last glimpse he'd seen, that place... There had been something about that place, something important. Where had it been? He knew it, knew it better than almost anything, and yet the name eluded him. It was like an itch in the depth of his brain, unreachable._

 _The visions he was seeing were hard to keep hold of. Were they really moments of his life? If they were, then what sort of life had he lived? It felt like the lives of several people sown together, different names and different places, and yet all part of him. Was he just seeing these things or was he actually there reliving them, jumping from moment to moment in time?_

 _Time..._

The word rang through his head as the ticking of the clock once more took him away.

A fist flew forward aiming directly at Rip's head.

The former Time Master could only watch, for a second frozen.

Fortunately, a small blue and red streak appeared, coming between Rip and his attacker, and letting out a blast which pushed the attacker away.

Rip's fighting instincts finally kicked in as he came back to himself.

Raising his revolver, he shot at the man who had been attempting to punch him hitting him directly in the chest. The man had yet to finish falling when a laser blast streaked by narrowly missing Rip. He swung his gun around sending off blasts at two more would be attackers before slamming the butt of the revolver on the head of a third who had been attempting to sneak up on him from behind.

Nothing to worry about, Rip thought dryly as he recalled what Sara had said at the market earlier.

He scanned the area. At least they seemed to be in the clear now.

Light shone through the windows of the mansion into the night. It was a large mansion, painted white with tall elaborate columns along its front. The grounds surrounding it were encircled by high walls and full of tall palm trees. Rip and Ray were stationed there to keep watch while Mick and Sara performed the actual heist, retrieving the dark energy generator from its unwitting owner. Martin and Jax had been ordered to stay behind on the Waverider because Rip had assumed there wouldn't be enough trouble to warrant the need for Firestorm. Of course, he had been anticipating dogs and security guards, not something like this.

Why was nothing ever easy?

Rip scowled down at the unconscious attackers. They were all heavily armed and wearing dark clothes covered in bits of armour. Both the weapons and the armour were centuries ahead of the current time period.

The blue and red streak flew up to him and enlarged into the form of Ray in his Atom suit.

"Time pirates, I'm guessing?" he said.

Rip knelt down to get a better look at them. That would have been his first guess too. It was far from the first time he'd encountered a group like this, the infamous Captain Kholi and his crew for example, but a familiar logo on one of the attacker's sleeves caught his eyes and he realized they were dealing with something different.

"They're time mercenaries," he said. "Time travelling thugs for hire. I thought this lot had been eliminated, but it seems the fall of the Time Masters has led to their resurgence."

"Think they're after the generator too?" asked Ray, toeing the nearest one with his boot.

"I can't think of any other reason they'd be here," Rip replied as he stood back up. "Unless, of course, the man who acquired the generator is a lot less ignorant than we assumed. When we get back to the ship, we should..." He trailed off.

An odd feeling had come over him, something he couldn't quite place, and without thinking he acted on it.

Grabbing Ray's arm, Rip yanked him aside.

A fraction of a second later, a high energy blast shot through the space where Ray had been standing.

Rip raised his revolver, aiming at the shooter before his eyes had fully registered seeing him. The blast hit the person in the neck, one of the few places not covered with armour, and they toppled over.

Ray's eyes widened. "Wow. Thanks, Rip. I owe you one"

"You're welcome," Rip said, absently.

He had known the shooter was there. Without seeing him, without hearing him, he had known the shooter was there and was about to fire at Ray, but how? The blast wouldn't have killed Ray, but it definitely would have hurt and most likely disabled his suit. It was lucky Rip had acted as quickly as he had, and yet...

The sensation that had hit him beforehand had been like déjà vu but more than that. It had actually felt a bit like the time he had been held captive by the Time Masters, when he had placed his hand into the Occulus and seen all of time and space open before him. Just thinking about it sent an ache through his head.

Maybe Jonah was right. Maybe he did think too much.

Rip frowned. Why was he thinking of that old cowboy now of all times?

"Uh, Rip?" said Ray, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm sure whatever you're thinking about is really important, but now might be a good time to get your head back in the game."

Rip blinked as he focused on his surroundings once more.

Ray was staring at the mansion, an anxious look on his face.

Rip followed Ray's gaze and saw what had the man so worried.

Another group of mercenaries were coming out of the mansion, weapons drawn.

"We've got company," Ray declared, unnecessarily.

Rip tapped the comlink in his ear. "Sara, how are things going in there?" he asked, raising his revolver and keeping it aimed at their new arrivals.

"I've got good news and bad news," came Sara's reply through the link.

More mercenaries appeared. Rip and Ray were seriously outnumbered. A woman at the head of the group smirked at Rip, apparently liking her odds.

"What's the good news?" Rip asked.

"The good news is we've got the generator and we're already heading out the back."

The mercenaries began to circle around surrounding Rip and Ray. The pair moved so they were standing back to back, Rip with his revolver sweeping back and forth, Ray with his fists forward aiming the lasers on his gauntlets.

"And the bad news?"

"There's a massive ship standing between us and the Waverider."

"Bollocks!" Rip cursed. They never could catch a break. "Miss Lance, Mr. Rory, keep the generator safe. Dr. Palmer and I will meet up with you shortly." He tapped his comlink again. "Mr. Jackson, start the engines and get the weapon systems ready. We're going to need them."

They needed to find the others and get back to the Waverider as soon as possible.

Rip took a step closer to Ray. "Dr. Palmer, if you wouldn't mind."

"It would be my pleasure," said Ray as he wrapped an arm around Rip and pulled him tightly against his side. "Buckle up."

The thrusters on Ray's boots fired and they launched into the air.

Rip used his revolver to send the mercenaries some parting shots, managing to take down several before they were out of range.

"You know," said Ray as they flew across the star streaked sky, wind whipping past them, "I think that's the fastest one of our missions has turned into a complete disaster."

"I doubt it," Rip replied, scanning the mansion's grounds for their fellow teammates.

"No really," Ray insisted. "All hell's broken loose and"—he checked the time displayed on the readout on his wrist —"it's only..."

 _Green swarmed his vision blotting out the stars as he was yanked away. He was drifting again. He needed to find a way to control, to control... whatever it was that was happening to him. What was happening? Was there a purpose to this or was he simply at the mercy of whatever storm he was caught up in?_

 _There was another flash of the place beyond the shimmering, swirling green._

 _If only he could focus. If only he could will that place into being somehow. It felt like there was something he needed to do there, something important._

 _He did his bet to focus on it as the clock ticked and he was pulled away._

Rip's eyes slowly opened.

A blurry vision of grayness hovered above him.

He blinked his eyes several times.

The vision solidified revealing the metal ceiling of the Waverider. That in itself wasn't unusual except for the fact that it was not, as it should have been, the ceiling in his quarters, but the ceiling above one of the ship's many corridors.

Rip's brows drew together as he frowned.

He was lying on the floor in the corridor.

Why was he lying on the floor in the corridor?

He tried to remember, but his mind came back blank. It didn't help that there was also a fairly substantial ache in his head. He was lying on the floor in the corridor and his head ached. Neither of those things boded well. How the hell had he ended up like this?

Rip began the painful process of sitting up. As he did so, one of his hands hit something. It rolled along the floor and hit the wall with a loud clunk.

It was an empty bottle of whiskey.

Oh, he thought, well, that explained a few things.

But why had he been drinking so heavily?

Rip gazed down at himself and was surprised to find himself clad in pyjamas and a robe Miranda had once bought him. On the shirt were several colourful streaks, streaks of icing...

Of course, he had been decorating cakes.

Rip frowned again.

But why had he been decorating cakes?

He thought back and more memories started to slot into place.

He had been decorating cakes because he'd been trying to forget that...

It suddenly came back to him, all of it.

He lay back down on the floor.

"I would not advice continuing to sleep on the floor," said Gideon, her voice coming down from the speakers above him. "Unless you wish to acquire back trouble."

"The condition of my back is the least of my worries," Rip muttered

"A reduction of alcohol would also be recommended," she added pointedly.

Rip glanced over at the empty bottle lying beside him.

Gideon might actually have a point there. He couldn't believe he had actually forgotten. He had forgotten everything: Mick's second betrayal, the loss of the spear to Thawne and the rest of the Legion, finding himself trapped and alone in a powerless Waverider while the rest of his team were who knows where suffering who knows what type of torture.

If they were even still alive that is.

He flung an arm over his face and groaned.

In some ways, he had got off easy. He deserved far worse after the things he had done recently, not to mention for letting down his team. Were they alive? If they were alive, why had they not come to rescue him? It had been... Well, he wasn't sure exactly how long, but it had been months since he had found himself alone. Did he dare hang on to that last bit of hope, that maybe, maybe they would come for him?

He had tried to rescue himself. He had spent weeks trying to restore the Waverider and had only succeeded in restoring Gideon. Cake decorating was something he had resorted to in a desperate need to distract himself from the situation, but even that failed to work all the time. The addition of alcohol certainly helped though not as much as he would like.

He had failed, and now he was trapped there forever, completely helpless.

Rip removed his arm and stared at the ceiling once more, body heavy with listless paralysis, mind caught in a numb fog.

"What do I do now?"

He had been speaking to himself, but he got an answer.

"Stand up," Gideon said as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Stand up? Rip mulled the idea over in his head before deciding it was in fact something he was capable of.

With what felt like tremendous effort, Rip rolled on to his front and slowly pushed himself to his feet. He wobbled slightly when he finally got his legs under him and was forced to use a nearby wall for support, but he did it.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Begin walking towards the galley," Gideon replied.

And he did so, concentrating on nothing else but putting one foot in front of the other. He liked this, simply obeying, not thinking. It saved him from thinking about other things.

Despite his slow pace, it didn't take him long to reach the galley. There was something waiting for him in the food fabricator when he arrived.

"I have prepared a nutritional shake for you," said Gideon. "Drink it. It should help eliminate some of the deficits you've acquired recently and rebalance your neurochemicals."

Once again, Rip obeyed. His stomach rebelled slightly at the first sip, but after he took several deep breaths, it quieted back down and he was able to continue. Surprisingly, the drink did seem to help. His head began to feel clearer after only a few sips.

With the clearer head though came an odd sensation that he had forgotten something.

He gazed about the galley at the various colourful cakes. "Gideon, was there... was there something I was supposed to do?"

"You did intend to create a multilayered strawberry mouse cake," said the A.I.

Rip shook his head. "No, that isn't it."

He left the galley taking the shake with him and began wandering aimlessly through the corridors, occasionally taking an absent sip of his drink.

"It was something... something to do with an old mission." A crease appeared between his eyes. "But which mission? Gideon, do you recall a particularly disastrous mission which occurred, uh, not too long after we took down Savage?"

"There are several missions that meet that description."

Rip let out a snort. "Yes, but I was referring to one in particular. It involved time pirates, or was it time mercenaries, and a heist?"

"There are still several to choose from," said Gideon.

Rip closed his eyes and tried to grasp hold of the stray memory which kept escaping him. Something important had happened on that mission, or perhaps after the mission, but what was it? He grit his teeth in frustration as the memory escaped him once again.

"Would you like to see the files?" asked Gideon.

Rip sighed and shook his head. "No. It's probably nothing." He didn't know why he was so fixated on the mission anyway. After all, he had much larger concerns at the moment, not that there was anything he could actually do about them.

Rip's feet had unexpectedly led him to the ship's library. He stood in the doorway and stared into the room. It was quite a large room. He'd had Jax design it so the Legends could have space to do research together, space his parlour lacked, and now the room stood unused and empty.

"What was the point?" he muttered.

"The point of what, Captain?" asked Gideon, concern in her voice.

Rip's hand tightened around his glass. "Everything!" he cried. "What was the point of creating this team if they were never going to save my family? What was the point of keeping them together if they were just going to end up...? What was the bloody point?!"

He threw his glass across the room. It shattered against the large vidscreen in the centre of the room, the remains of his drink splattering across its surface. Letting out a cry, he then proceeded to attack the shelves, yanking off books, smashing urns, and tossing statues and anything else aside.

The fury didn't last. He didn't have the energy to keep it up for long and he soon sank to the floor among the debris he had created.

"I'm sorry, Rip," Gideon said softly.

Rip didn't reply. He just leaned back, resting his head against one of the shelves.

As he did so, his eyes came to rest on one of the things tossed to the floor. It was a small clock. It lay on its side facing away from him.

Something about the sight triggered the shadow of a memory, but this memory proved as elusive as the last one. He was once more filled with the feeling he had forgotten something. Had there been something about clocks during that mission he couldn't seem to recall?

He reached for the clock and turned it over. Surprisingly, it was still working.

Images suddenly flooded his mind and his eyes widened.

He remembered. He remembered exactly what mission he had forgotten and what had happened after, but it was too late. His eyes had already fallen on the face of the clock.

The time was...

 _He cursed as the churning green took him again. He had had answers! For a second there, he had known everything, he was sure of it, but already it was slipping away from him, his mind still unable to hold on to the memories._

 _There was one thing, though, one thing he did manage to hold onto, an anchor in the storm._

 _The Waverider!_

 _His ship. His home. Something so important, so interwoven with the stream of his life he couldn't understand how he could have forgotten it. The Waverider and... and... There was something very important attached to the Waverider, someone very important, but the memories were lost to him again._

 _The place he kept seeing though, the one hidden behind the green, it was the inside of the Waverider. He was sure of it. He recognized the familiar metal walls._

 _But was the Waverider somewhere beyond the swirling green light or was the green light inside the Waverider?_

 _He tried to will himself back there, but the clock ticked and the river of green took him somewhere else._


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: I told you the chapters would be going up pretty quick. Next one to come this weekend sometime. And hopefully this fic will soon start making sense, hopefully._

 **Chapter 3**

Air wheezed in Michael's lungs as he hastened along the street weaving unseen through the crowds of drifting people. There had been a heaviness in his lungs and a raspiness to his breathing for several days now, not that he let it slow him down. There was no time to rest when you were counting on your own swift fingers to fetch your daily meals.

Michael stuck his hand in his pocket and felt his latest acquisition, turning it over in his hand and running his fingers along its smooth surface.

And going out that day had definitely proven profitable.

Letting out a cough, Michael took his hand out of his pocket and wrapped his arms around himself. It had been a particularly cold winter that year and the cold kept getting in no matter how many layers he wore. Usually during the colder times he would try to meet up with a group of other kids and they would huddle together at night to stay warm, but his latest group had been forced to scatter when the owner of the building they'd been staying in had found them, and now he was on his own again.

Handsome cabs rattled along the cobbled street and Michael dashed between two of them as he crossed trying to get back to his hidey-hole. The place he was currently staying in used to be a bakery before it had caught fire. There wasn't enough left of it for it to remain so, but there was enough to provide Michael with some shelter before they finally got around to tearing it down.

When he got there, he went straight to the little nest he had created in a tiny nook beneath some fallen timber. He didn't keep much there, he had long ago learned to keep with him anything he didn't want to lose, but there were newspapers to sleep on and a couple tattered blankets to wrap around himself. The place smelt of smoke and the damp from where the rain had got in. A fair number of rats liked to hang out there too, but there were worse places.

Michael crawled inside, sat down on the pile of newspapers, and pulled one of the blankets around his shoulders. When he was comfortably settled, he took his prize out of his pocket so he could finally get a good look at it. All feelings of illness and cold were soon forgotten.

It was like nothing he had ever seen before.

It was a little box, or at least, it looked like one. The size and shape were similar to that of a cigar case, but he couldn't find a way to open it. The metal it was made from looked like a tarnished silver, and yet it wasn't silver, or iron, or any other metal he could identify. In fact, even though it was made of metal, it weighed surprisingly little.

None of those things, though, were what made it so unique or what made Michael's breath catch in his throat as he gazed at it.

The most amazing thing about the box were the lights.

Tiny coloured lights shone out of the box's surface. If he had been out in the sun, he likely would have believed it to be caused by sunlight glinting off gemstones, but in his little hidey-hole where only shallow streams of light got through, he could see it actually glowed.

The couple he had stolen the box from had been an odd pair. Foreigners, Michael had assumed. At first glance, they'd seemed normal enough, but after watching them awhile, he had realized something was off. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it, but something about their clothes and the way they moved had just been wrong. They'd also been oddly clean, a large contrast to Michael's own state.

He continued to study the box gazing at the lights in awe.

There were symbols too, and words. They glowed as well. He was quite proud of the fact he could read. He had taught himself and it had proven useful on a number of occasions as sometimes people would give him a ha'penny to read things out to them. Most of these words, though, were ones he didn't recognize.

Tracking was one of the words he did recognize, and ship.

A crease appeared between his brows as he tried to figure out the rest.

One of the lights suddenly started flashing.

Michael almost dropped the box in surprise. After several moments of panic during which he began to wonder if the box were in fact alive, he took hold of it, and acting on some instinct he couldn't explain, pressed his fingers against some of the glowing symbols.

The light stopped flashing.

Michael blinked in surprise.

He pressed more of the symbols and found that as he moved his fingers along the surface of the box he could change what words and symbols showed.

A grin spread across Michael's face.

He didn't know if the box were magic or used some sort of fancy clockwork, but he felt for certain if he studied it long enough, he'd be able to figure out what it did and how it worked.

All he needed was some time.

A noise startled him out of his examinations, a rough scraping noise. It was soon followed by the sound of footsteps and voices.

Surely, they hadn't come to demolish the shop now of all times, thought Michael.

He put the box back in his pocket and crawled deeper into his hidey-hole doing his best to stay as quiet as possible.

"...here somewhere," said a woman's voice, "but it's no longer transmitting."

It was a male voice which replied. "Do you think it's been destroyed?"

"So quickly? In this era?" said the woman. "More likely it's been turned off."

"An equally unlikely possibility," said the man.

"Then how do you explain it?"

Their words meant nothing to Michael. He stayed where he was and prayed they would move on.

Unfortunately, fate was against him.

A tickle developed in Michael's throat. He fought against it as hard as he could, but his weakened lungs were not up to the fight and he soon fell into a fit of coughing.

Steps moved in his direction and a shadow fell over the entrance of his hiding place.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Michael's eyes widened. It was the man he had stolen the box from. How had he found him?

"I believe I've found our little thief," the man declared. He began yanking aside the timber exposing Michael's nest.

Michael tried to make a run for it, but it was no use. He was already cornered and the woman proved surprisingly fast despite the long dress she wore. She grabbed hold of his arm as he dashed past, almost yanking it out its socket. Michael struggled trying to get away, but only ended up breaking into another coughing fit.

The man knelt in front of him. "Where is it?"

Michael scowled in response.

The man studied him a moment, and then reached inside Michael's pocket and pulled out the box.

"Oy," Michael cried. "That's mine."

The man stood back up, his forehead furrowing as he gazed at the box. "It seems you were right," he said to the woman. "It has been turned off." He looked back down at Michael. "Now how did you manage that?"

Michael didn't reply. Truthfully, he wasn't even sure what the man was talking about.

The man spent another moment studying him, then seemed to come to a decision. "We'll take him with us."

Michael's heart began to pound. He resumed his struggle to get away.

"Are you sure?" asked the woman, her grip on Michael never wavering.

"We always need new initiates," said the man, "and he has potential."

"But a filthy street urchin? Really?"

"It means his removal is unlikely to have an impact on the timeline, and trust me, I've recruited worse."

Though he was weakening and his breathing was growing even raspier, Michael continued to struggle. He had no idea where these people wanted to take him, but he had no intention of going with them.

"Easy now," said the man, kneeling down in front of Michael once more. "We're not going to hurt you. We're taking you somewhere better, somewhere special, somewhere there's plenty of food and you no longer have to sleep out in the cold. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Despite himself, Michael stopped struggling. It did sound nice, being able to get away from the bitter chill, not having to fight for food. His stomach, perhaps recalling how little he had eaten that day, growled in appreciation.

The man smiled. "That's better. Now, what's your name? Mine's Druce."

Druce...

Something about the name sent a cold shiver down Michael's spine. Images came to his mind, images of the man who was kneeling before him, but in them he was wearing odd clothing like a monk's robes. In one, they were standing in a forest at night as another man held a gun to Michael's head. In another, they were in a large, darkened room, a shaft of blue light coming down from the ceiling, Michael growing sick to his stomach as Druce told horrific tales.

"No!" he cried and he started fighting to get away even more furiously than before. "No!"

The man sighed. "Well, I tried." He pulled something out of his coat.

Michael wasn't able to get a good look at the object before he was blinded by a flash light.

As darkness took him, he heard the church bells in the distance chiming the hour.

It was...

 _Back in the grip of the green swirling energy, he kept struggling, but it had little effect. The shimmering green just danced around him. He had no idea what he was even fighting against._

 _These glimpses, these jumps were starting to help though. Pieces of memory were slowly coming together in his mind and he was getting an idea of who he was, even if some of the details were still missing._

 _He was Rip Hunter._

 _And he was Michael Carter._

 _He was both a man of time and a child of the streets, belonging nowhere and travelling everywhere._

 _The answers to his other important questions, however, such as where he was and why he was there and what was happening, still eluded him._

 _He had a feeling there was something he was meant to do, something important. A sense of urgency was steadily growing in him. People were counting on him, but who and why?_

 _Voices. He could hear the voices calling out to him again._

 _He was trying to make out what they were saying when the tick-tock of the clock carried him away._

Hands clasped tightly behind his back, Rip dutifully followed Druce as he strode along the primary hangar bay of the Vanishing Point. The cavernous space seemed to go on forever, the rows of timeships along each side disappearing off into the distance, the ceiling arching impossibly high above them, the hollow acoustics swallowing every sound.

Rip was actually feeling somewhat ill, his stomach queasy and his head aching. He blamed it on nerves. He had been there many times before, of course, during training missions and while assisting others as a lieutenant, but this time was different.

Bright lights shone down from the ceiling casting rays of illumination upon each of the timeships. Some were waiting for their captains to return. Some were in for repairs and covered in swarms of engineers. Others were brand new and still being built, only the half-finished framework of ships.

And one, one of those timeships, one would soon be Rip's.

"Now," began Druce as they reached their destination and drew to a stop, "there are six ships currently unassigned from which you can choose."

He consulted the tablet in his hand as Rip gazed about him in anticipation.

"There's the Iskra." Druce pointed to a sleek looking ship painted all in red. "A small ship but fast and exceptionally manoeuvrable. Its last captain used to boast that it could out run anyone in any time period, and it severed her well in over a hundred missions."

They continued forward towards another ship, a larger one, mainly silver but with purple highlights.

"Then there's the Xinglong, a brand new ship and very powerful. You'd be the first to fly it. The weapons are top of the range which would come in useful for a number of reasons, and it also..."

The Time Master continued his spiel explaining all the pros and cons of the new ship, but Rip wasn't listening anymore.

Across the hangar bay, another ship had caught his eye. He didn't know why, but as soon as he saw it, he found himself unable to look away.

It was an older ship. The construction was fairly standard, but more worn and less sleek than some of the others. It was also showing signs of neglect as if it had been there awhile. No paint coloured its metal hull other than a serial number written in white, WR-2055.

Logically, there was nothing really special about it, and yet...

"Mr. Hunter?" said Druce, obviously confused as to why his favourite pupil was no longer listening to him. "Rip?"

Broken from whatever spell he had been under, Rip turned back to Druce and nodded towards the ship. "What about that one?"

Druce frowned. "The Waverider?" He consulted his tablet once more. "It's not on the list. It is currently unassigned, but it's also under evaluation. It has been for a while now. Its former captain gave it up due to incompatibilities with the A.I. The Council are still trying to determine if a new A.I. can be integrated or if the whole ship needs to be scrapped."

"Could I take a look at it?" asked Rip, speaking quickly. "I mean if it is unassigned. You did say I could have whichever ship I wished, sir."

"Yes," Druce agreed, reluctantly. "You were given that privilege because you were top of your class, but I was rather hoping you'd choose the Acheron."

Rip's eyes widened. "The flagship?"

"Its captain has just been promoted to the Council, so the ship needs a new one, and I think you would be a perfect fit."

Becoming the captain of the flagship was an honour Rip had never even imagined, and yet...

His eyes were drawn to the Waverider once more. "Could I just take a look at the other ship first, sir, before I make my decision?"

Druce studied him a moment, evaluating. "Alright," he said, finally. "I can give you a tour if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary," said Rip. "I'll be fine on my own." And he hurried off before the man attempted to change his mind.

The feeling Rip had experienced upon first seeing the Waverider only became stronger as he neared the ship. He took a quick tour of the outside first, circling the ship before going up the ramp and inside.

The interior of the ship was quiet and dark. Only a few emergency lights illuminated the cargo bay as Rip entered. That, combined with the empty containers scattered about the floor, gave the place a feeling of abandonment and neglect, and to most, it would probably have felt eerie, but it didn't feel that way to Rip. To him, it felt like something that just needed a little love and care. In fact, there was something about it that felt almost comforting, familiar.

It felt like home.

Rip passed through the cargo bay and climbed the stairs up to the main level of the ship. The corridor above was even darker, but it still didn't seem creepy to him. Needing to touch, to connect, he reached out a hand and rested it against the wall feeling the cool, metal surface beneath his fingers.

This was his ship. Rip didn't know how he knew, but he knew. This was his ship.

He continued down the corridor ignoring all the rooms which branched off and letting it lead him where he needed to go.

The bridge.

It appeared before him as the corridor ended, a large hexagonal room full of geometric shapes and angular lines. It was much brighter than the rest of the ship thanks to the lights from hangar bay streaming through the forward window.

Rip stepped inside and turned around and around as he took it all in.

A large rectangular console sat in the middle of the room surrounded by a semi-circular arrangement of chairs, chairs intended for passengers should the need arise, or a team, a voice quietly added at the back of his mind though he couldn't fathom why he would ever need one. The most important chair though was the one at the very front of the bridge.

Rip walked over to it and laid a hand upon its back.

This was the Captain's chair. This was where he would sit while he flew off across time and space to live the adventures he had spent his entire life dreaming about. He couldn't believe those dreams were finally coming true. The only thing that could make it better were if Miranda were there to share it with him, but he squashed that thought, not wanting to ruin the moment.

He gazed back at the rest of the bridge.

It was fairly bare other than those things necessary for the functioning of the ship, and the fact nearly everything was made of metal left the place feeling cold and impersonal, but he could change that. There was plenty of space at the back of the bridge for a study or a parlour, and he could decorate it any way he wanted.

He felt a sudden giddy sense of freedom.

A light on the central console caught his eye and he went over to examine it. There was writing printed across the screen. It said 'Artificial Intelligence Status: Dormant.'

Of course, thought Rip, they must have shut down the A.I. while they were deciding what to do with it. Wanting to meet his new A.I., he hit the buttons needed to reactivate it.

A blue holographic head appeared above the console. It smiled at him and a pleasant female voice said, "Greetings, I am Gideon."

Rip smiled back. "Greetings, Gideon. I'm Rip Hunter and I am going to be your new captain."

The holographic face grew questioning. "Then the Council have decided not to permanently deactivate me?"

"Technically, no," Rip admitted, "but I was given the choice to take whatever unassigned ship I wanted and you're it."

"I see," said Gideon. "Why?"

Rip frowned. "Why what?"

"Why choose me?"

Rip opened his mouth and then closed it again. Why did he want this ship so bad? "Because this looked like a ship in need of a captain," he said, finally.

It was true but it wasn't the whole truth. There was also a connection he felt to this ship, a connection he couldn't quite explain.

A slight frown appeared on the holographic face. "You do not mind the fact my previous captain rejected me?"

Rip let out an amused huff. "Well, I can't say I've exactly got along with everyone I've met either. What did you do that they so thoroughly disagreed with?"

Gideon's voice remained perfectly pleasant as she replied. "I locked him in his quarters for five days."

Rip's eyes widened, and for the first time, he felt some doubt. What exactly was he getting into? "Um, well, I'm sure you had good reason."

"He made a stupid decision during a mission which could have caused both of us to be permanently deactivated."

"I see..."

"He was also rude," Gideon added.

Rip had always assumed A.I.'s were programmed to do exactly as their captains ordered. That didn't seem to be the case with Gideon, but was that necessarily a bad thing? "I'll have to do my best not be stupid or rude then."

"That would be greatly appreciated." A touch of hardness entered her polite tone making her words come out almost like a threat.

Rip gave a nervous cough. "I'm sure we'll get along splendidly."

The blue head cocked to the side and Rip had the sudden feeling that he was being evaluated. "Rip Hunter," she said. "You graduated top of your class."

"That's right," said Rip. He was confused for a moment, and then he realized she must have accessed his file.

"You also faced a disciplinary hearing due to an affair with a fellow lieutenant."

"Those charges were dismissed," Rip said, striking a hand through the air, "and what happened in no ways reflects my ability to my job."

Gideon studied him for another moment, then said, "I believe you'll do."

Rip suddenly felt like he had just passed a test he hadn't even realized he'd been taking. He breathed out a sigh of relief. "I suppose I'd better go tell Time Master Druce that I've made my decision then," he said, clapping his hands together.

He turned to leave, but something nagged at him and he turned back. "Gideon?"

"Yes, Captain?"

A thrill went through Rip at hearing her call him that.

"I was wondering..." He trailed off. There was something he had meant to ask her, something important, but he couldn't remember what it was. "Sorry, I've forgotten what it was I was going to ask."

"Hmm," said Gideon. "I hope memory problems aren't going to be a recurring issue."

Rip chuckled. He could have taken it as an insult, but instead he took it as the teasing of an old friend, because that's what Gideon already felt like, a close friend he had known for years.

"I really do need to get back. Druce is probably wondering where I am and there are many things we need to do to get the ship ready for our first mission." How long had he been there? he wondered. "What time is it?"

Gideon obediently replied. "The time is..."

 _He screamed as the green maelstrom yanked him away, or at least, he tried to. He wasn't sure if sound actually existed in this place. His body too was a thing that seemed to exist more as an idea than a fact._

 _Gideon._

 _He remembered her now. Gideon, the one by his side through so many perils and hardships. Gideon would know what was going on. Gideon would know how to help him, and yet he hadn't asked. He hadn't even known what to ask._

 _With each jump, he seemed to forget. He would be left with only a shadow of a memory of what was really going on. It was like the memories of that time took over._

 _How was he supposed to get the answers to his question when he couldn't even remember the questions?_

 _The answers had to be out there somewhere._

 _He prayed to be taken to them as the clock ticked and the world shifted once more._

An electrical spark snapped at Rip's fingers sending a jolt up his arm. He quickly yanked his hand out of the circuits he'd been working on and stuck his fingers in his mouth.

There was a laugh from beside him. "Boy, Sara and Ray were right. You really are out of it today."

Rip turned from the part of the ship's engine he had been working on to gaze over at Jax who was doing his own work not too far away.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, once he'd taken his singed fingers out of his mouth.

"Nearly getting run over by a bus," said Jax. "Freezing up in the middle of the fight with those time mercenaries."

Rip scowled. "There is far too much gossiping going on among this team."

"Yeah, well," Jax said with a shrug, "there's not much else to do around here. So, what's going on with you?"

What was going on with him? Rip wondered. He shouldn't have been so distracted during their mission earlier and he shouldn't have made that mistake just now. This was a simple repair. His thoughts seemed to be all over the place recently. He couldn't seem to focus.

"Have you ever had a feeling something bad was going to happen?" he asked. "Or that you'd forgotten to do something important?"

"Sure," said Jax, placing the panel back over the system he'd been working on. "I had that feeling once when I was at school. Turns out I'd left the oven on. My mom sure chewed me out over that one."

"I've had that feeling ever since this mission started, and even now it's over, the feeling still hasn't gone away."

"Maybe you're just tired." Jax rubbed the back of his neck, wincing at the stiffness there. "It has been a long day."

It had been a long day. First there was the failure to obtain the energy generator via legal means, then the disastrous heist and the fight against the time mercenaries, then the fight with the mercenaries' ship and all the repairs that had ensued. At least, they had accomplished their mission in the end, retrieved the generator and taken care of the mercenaries.

"Maybe," said Rip, but he wasn't fully convinced.

"Maybe," Jax repeated, "we should take a break. Surely, Gideon's auto-repair systems can handle the rest of the repairs."

"Automatic systems can complete the repairs within twenty-four hours," confirmed the A.I.

Rip frowned.

A break did sound tempting, and yet... That feeling was still nagging at him.

"I'm just going to run another scan on the time drive," said Rip, digging out a scanner from the tool kit.

Shoulders slumping, Jax let out a sigh. "Again? Come on, man. You've already scanned it three times."

"You can never be too careful where it comes to the time drive. You of all people should know that."

"Yeah, I remember, but was it really necessary for us to double check the life support systems too and the power relays."

"I'm just being thorough," Rip insisted.

"You're being paranoid," said Jax, rolling his eyes.

"The extra checks do appear to be unnecessary," Gideon put in.

Jax pointed up at the ceiling. "See, even Gideon agrees with me."

"Gideon is being a mother hen as usual," Rip said dismissively. "She only wants me to stop doing checks so I'll take a break and get some sleep."

"Sleep might not be such a bad idea," said Jax. "You do look like you could use some."

"A full eight hours preferably," added Gideon.

Rip shot a look up at the ceiling. "If you keep agreeing him, I'm going to start thinking you like him more than me."

Jax gave a snort. "Not possible."

Maybe taking a break would be good, thought Rip as he let out a sigh. He was feeling fairly worn out and an ache was steadily growing behind his eyes.

"Alright," he said, "since it seems the two of you won't stop badgering me. I'll take a break, but after I've done this final check."

He jumped up onto platform beneath the time drive and ran the scanner over it. It glowed blue and made several beeps.

"Aha," he said as he checked the readings, "I knew something was wrong. There's a 0.01 micron imbalance in the quantum field."

"Is that bad?" asked Jax, coming over to join him.

"Well, technically, it's within the safety margins," Rip admitted. "But better safe than sorry."

Jax rolled his eyes again. "So how do you fix it?"

"Pass me the field compressor," said Rip, waving his hand at the tool box.

Jax went over and fetched it.

Rip nodded in thanks as Jax handed over the tool pleased to see he had gotten the right one. It really was amazing how fast Jax's knowledge of timeship mechanics had grown. Not so long ago, he hadn't even known timeships were real. He would make a fine chief engineer when Rip was gone.

Stopping his work, Rip blinked in confusion. Why was he thinking about being gone? He wasn't going anywhere. He had no intention of ever going anywhere. The Waverider was his home. The only one he had now.

"You're doing it again," said Jax.

Rip came back to himself. "Doing what?"

Jax gave him a pointed look. "Spacing out on me."

"I was just thinking," said Rip, "that you might like to try doing the repair yourself."

He offered the tool back to Jax. After all even if he had no intention of leaving, it couldn't hurt to teach Jax as much as possible just in case something happened.

Jax's eyes brightened. "Sure," he said and took the field compressor, "so how do I do this?"

Rip showed Jax how to use the tool properly and how to monitor the minute changes in the time drive's quantum field as he did so. As expected, Jax picked it up quickly and was soon using the field compressor as if he had done so his whole life.

A tiny smile appeared on Rip's face as he watched him work. The Waverider was in good hands.

The watch on Jax's wrist caught Rip's eyes. They really had been working a long time. The watch said it was already...

 _Back in the green again, the shimmering, swirling green. It had been hiding something from him, but now he knew what it was._

 _The Waverider's engine room._

 _He could see it just beyond the maelstrom surrounding him. That was the place he'd been catching glimpses of. He was inside this whirlwind of green, but somehow inside the engine room too. He just needed to fight this thing, this shimmering, green energy, so he could get to the engines and..._

 _And do what? Was he supposed to fix something? He had one piece of the puzzle. He knew where he was, but he still didn't know why he was there, what was going on, or what he was supposed to do._

 _The ticking clock pulled him away once again._

"Earth to Phil?"

"Huh?"

Phil looked up, confused for a moment as to where he was, then he saw the concerned face of his friend George gazing at him and he remembered.

"Sorry," he said, shaking his head as if to get the cobwebs loose, "I guess I was daydreaming." Daydreaming a very familiar daydream. He'd been completely lost in Rip Hunter's world again as if he didn't get enough of that during sleep.

"I'll say," said George. "I had to call you three times. Maybe you should cut down on the beer."

Phil looked at the half-finished bottle of beer in his hand in surprise. He hadn't even realized he was still holding it. How much had he drunk? It hadn't seemed like much, but the foggy edge to his thoughts and the queasiness of his insides told him otherwise. Deciding to follow George's advice, he put the bottle down.

"So..." He cleared his throat nervously. "Lay it on me."

The two were seated cross-legged across from each other on the floor of Phil's apartment. Papers were scattered about them, papers covered in tiny typed words and scrawls of red marker.

"Well," said George. "I think it's great."

Phil's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Yeah. I love the whole sci-fi fantasy western mix. I mean"—George flipped through the pages in his hands—"this idea of a former assassin getting a chance to redeem herself by helping a time-travelling space cowboy from the future is seriously far-out, and the plot is riveting. Going to all those different places in time so they can retrieve pieces of the Spear of Destiny from its guardians so they can use it to stop an immortal psychopath from destroying the world and save Rip's family? I love it. The characters are great too. They feel as if they were really real."

A grin spread across Phil's face as George spoke.

"But..." George added.

Phil's grin immediately fell. "But? But what?"

George grimaced. "You're going to have to make some changes."

"Come on, man," said Phil, flinging his hands up in the air. "Changes? You just said it was great!"

"A great story, yeah," George agreed, "but no way are you going to be able to make this into a movie."

"Why not?"

"Well, let's start with this part." George pointed at one of the pages of the script.

Phil made a face as he read it. "What's wrong with that? It's the big love scene. You're the one who told me every good movie needs a good love scene."

"Yeah," said George, "but you have Sandra kissing Keira."

"So," Phil said, his shoulders rising and falling. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing if you don't mind getting kicked out of film school."

Phil rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious," said George, sternly. "No lesbians."

"Actually, Sandra and Keira like both girls and guys so technically they're—"

"No."

Phil sighed. "Fine. Keira can hook up with Roy. They'll make a cute couple."

George's bushy eyebrows drew together. "But weren't you planning on casting Roy as white and Keira as black?"

"Come on," cried Phil, throwing his hands up in the air. "This is the 1960s. 'The times they are a-changing' remember. Can't I push the boundaries even a little bit?"

"Not if you want your film approved," said George. "Besides, you're already pushing the boundaries by having a female lead in an action movie."

"Well, I can't have Sandra hooking up with Rip. The guy's a grieving widow for God's sake!"

"What about Leon Smart? I thought he and Sandra had great chemistry." George frowned again. "Smart is white, right?"

Phil held up a finger. "Actually, I was thinking he could be mixed—" He caught the look on George's face. "Fine," he grumbled. "He's white."

"Great," said George. "Now that's settled, you really need to do something about Max and Marvin."

Phil was seriously wishing he had drunk more of that beer. "Why? It's not like they hook up."

"It's their powers," George explained. He flipped to another page in the script. "It says here that when they join together, they light on fire. You do realize your special effects budget is practically zero?"

"Alright," Phil conceded. "So we'll just put some flame designs on the costume and have him shoot fireballs out of his hands. Please tell me we can at least manage that."

"Maybe?"

George's tone was not reassuring.

"Now Roy Plumber's armour shouldn't be too hard," George continued, "and laser blasts are manageable, but no way are we going to be able to have him and Max and Keira all fly."

"Why not?!" Phil exclaimed.

George raised his eyebrows. "Do you have any idea how much wire rigging cost?"

"Alright, alright." Phil sighed. "Just Kendra will fly then. She's the one with wings after all."

"You mean Keira?"

"That's what I said."

George flipped through the script some more. "You might also want to get rid of some of your characters."

Phil's eyes narrowed. "Get rid of?" he said, his voice growing sharp.

George, eyes still on the script, completely missed the change in tone. "Yeah. Not only will it save money in casting, but it will also make the plot feel a lot less cluttered."

"I agree the plot might be a little cluttered," Phil conceded, "but every single one of my characters is vital to the plot."

"Well, what about Dick Rosky?" suggested George. "He's an interesting character, but you've already got a thief, and Max and Marvin have the fire thing going. It shouldn't be too hard to combine Dick's role with Leon's, and hey, if you're worried about comic relief, you can always up Roy's goofiness."

The feeling of repulsion Phil felt at that was almost visceral. "No, no, no, no, no, no." He shook his head vehemently. "You can't just... change who my characters are for the sake of the plot, or for... for comic relief."

George gave him a sympathetic look. "You might have to if you want your story to actually work as a film, and it's not like the characters are real. You can do what you want with them."

"They are real!" Phil snapped, and then he swallowed and said in a much quieter voice. "I mean they're real to me."

"Phil, I know how attached you get to—"

Phil shook his head. "You don't understand." He grew more and more agitated as he spoke, his hands making wild gestures in the air. "These characters are important. Sara and I... I mean Sandra and I... No, Sandra and Rip need them, all of them. They're what help the two of them become better people."

George leaned away from Phil as if blown back by his tirade. "Uh, maybe we should take a break," he said, putting down the script. "We've been at this a long time and—"

But Phil wasn't stopping."Each of the Legends is special. They're flawed, yes, and they butt heads sometimes, but that's what makes them so great, so real. You can't change them or exchange them, or my mission would never... Rip's mission would never work. He needs... I need..."

He trailed off, suddenly not feeling so good. The queasiness in his stomach had increased and a pounding headache had begun beneath his temple.

"Are you ok?" asked George, his expression going from nervous to concerned.

Phil wiped a hand across his forehead and was surprised to find it damp. "I... I don't know."

George's concern turned into alarm. He moved to Phil's side and put a hand on his shoulder. "Did you take something earlier? Tell me. You could be having a bad reaction."

"What? No. I just... Something's wrong." Phil gazed around his room as if he had never seen it before. "This isn't right. I shouldn't be here."

Ignoring George's protests, he got to his feet, wobbling a fair amount once he'd done so.

"I have to... I have to get back to the ship," he said, taking a step and stumbling slightly. "I need to stop..."

"What you need to do is go to the hospital," said George who was doing his best to help Phil remain upright. "Or at least lie down."

"I can't. I have to..." Phil gazed around the room once more. "Time... Something's wrong with..."

His eyes fell on the clock beside his bed.

It was...

 _The agitation and queasiness came back with him into the green as it swirled around him. He was starting to remember more now, both during these jumps and after. His true memories were slowly starting to seep through whatever barrier was keeping them back. Maybe that meant he would finally be able to get some answers._

 _He was fairly sure of what was happening now. These weren't just flashes of memory he was experiencing. He really was being pulled back and forth across his own timeline, or at least, his consciousness was, but he didn't know how or why, and there were still so many things that didn't make sense. The last jump for instance. Where was he, what was he doing there, and why was his name suddenly Phil?_

 _In front of him like a ghost through green fog, the Waverider's engines loomed._

 _And he had a feeling he needed those answers sooner rather than later._

 _The neverending tick-tock of the clock continued and the world shifted once again._


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: In which we finally see some sort of plot develop_

 **Chapter 4**

Michael peeked around doorway into the drawing room.

He was in luck. The room was empty.

He scurried quickly across the Persian carpet, past the Chinese vases filled with flowers, past the oil paintings of shorelines and countrysides, past the chairs with their plush upholstery and the tables with their carved lion-paw feet, and into the far corner of the room. There he knelt down, removed a knife from his shoe, and began prying up one of the floorboards.

It had taken him awhile to get used to living at the Refuge. The fancy furniture was one thing, but everything was also ridiculously clean. The woman who asked him to call her mother even insisted he bathe every day. Having a daily routine had taken some getting used to too and having to do what he was told. That had created more than a little conflict when he had first arrived.

Surprisingly though, he found he really enjoyed his classes even if they had been difficult at first. A lot of the other kids had actually been to school before or came from 'other times' where things he was only just learning about were considered normal, so he was a bit behind. Some of the kids had even teased him about it, but he was catching up, slowly he was catching up.

Whatever the frustrations though, it was worth it, not having to worry about where his next meal came from or having to fight for a warm spot to sleep in.

Not that he intended to take any of that for granted.

The floorboard came up without much effort letting out only the tiniest of wooden creaks. Michael put the board aside, and reaching into the hole he had created, pulled out a rectangular tin. The tin was a deep red with a picture of kittens playing on the lid. Opening it revealed a bunch of tiny packages wrapped in paper. Michael pulled a similar package from his pocket and placed it in the tin before closing the lid once more and putting it back in its hiding spot.

He was about to put the floorboard back too when someone behind him cleared their throat.

Eyes widening, Michael swung around.

Mary Xavier stood behind him, arms folded across her chest.

Michael blanched.

"Hand it over," she said, sternly.

Shoulders slumping, Michael took the tin back out and handed it over.

Mary opened the tin and removed one of the packages. The paper fell open to reveal a crumbling cookie. She sighed.

"Michael, we've talked about this. If you want more food, all you have to do is ask. You don't need to keep hiding these little scraps everywhere."

Michael stared at the ground and shuffled his feet.

He had tried to explain, but she didn't understand. He had always hidden food away. That's what you did when you had extra. It helped you get through the bad times when there wasn't any. If he didn't have food stashed away somewhere, a knot of panic would grow inside his chest and refuse to go away.

Mary expression was sympathetic but unwavering as she held out her hand again. "And the knife."

Michael scowled.

"The knife," Mary repeated calmly.

With great reluctance, Michael removed the knife from his shoe and handed it over too. It was a kitchen knife, one he had stolen during one of their communal meals.

"You do know you are safe here, don't you?" Mary said gently. "I promise no one's going to hurt you."

Michael wanted to believe her. He did, but when you were as small as he was, a blade did a lot to even the odds, and he hadn't survived for so long on the streets by trusting everyone would be nice to him.

Mary shook her head. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Sorry, miss," Michael said, hanging his head. "I'll try to do better."

Mary patted him on the shoulder. "Just try to stop stealing things. That would be a good start." She sighed again. "We'll find a way to make a Time Master out of you somehow. You do want to be a Time Master, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, miss."

It had been tough for Michael to get his head around it at first, people travelling in ships through the air and the stars, going to the past and the future, having adventures and setting things right, but once he had, he had been intrigued. He had stolen a couple of books once. That was how he had learned to read. They had been full of sailing ships and pirates, knights and dragons, sword fights and daring rescues. He had so wanted to be a part of those stories, to go on adventures to new places and be a hero, and now he had a chance. If he didn't mess it up that is.

"I'll be a good Time Master," he insisted. "I'll be the best there ever was."

Mary grinned. "And the Council will be glad to have you I've no doubt."

Michael made a face. For some reason, the statement left a sour feeling in his stomach.

"Glad to use me you mean," he said bitterly.

Mary's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Michael frowned. Why had he said that? He didn't know, and yet he knew it to be true. "They just want to use me," he repeated. "They'll take away the people I love and manipulate me into doing what they want like I'm their little puppet."

A stab of pain shot through Michael's head. Wincing, he reached up to rub his forehead, and then stopped when he saw his hand, staring at it in confusion. Why was it so small? It was a child's hand, but he wasn't a child, was he?

"Michael?" said Mary, her voice full of worry. "What's wrong?"

Micheal gazed up at her. "Mother?" he said in confusion. Why was she there? For that matter, where was he? The Refuge? Shouldn't he be on the ship?

Mary knelt down in front of him and placed both hands on his shoulders gazing searchingly into his eyes. "Something is wrong." Getting back up, she took a hold of his arm and began hurriedly leading him out of the room. "We need to get you to the medbay."

Still confused, Michael... No, he wasn't Micheal. He hadn't been Michael for a long time. Rip let her pull him along, but as they passed the old grandfather clock in the hall, his eyes caught sight of the dial.

The time was...

 _The swirling, churning, shimmering green had him again, wrapping around him like chains. He was growing tired and frustrated. His mother could have helped. She would have known what was going on and she had been there, right there, but he hadn't been able to tell her what was happening. He still didn't remember enough during these jumps to make a difference._

 _He was helpless, at the mercy of whatever he was trapped in._

 _The voices began again, calling out to him, yelling things he couldn't quite make out, yelling at him to do something._

 _"I'm trying," he yelled back, but his words got sucked into the swirling vortex of green like everything else._

 _The world shifted and he hoped this time the ticking clock would lead him to answers._

"Daddy, you're not paying attention."

Rip blinked. He was sitting on the couch in the living room of his flat in Whitechapel, surrounded by warm shades of colour and familiar furniture, the late afternoon sun streaming through the window beside him and Jonas standing in front of him, his lower lip protruding in a sullen pout.

What had he just been thinking about? Something about his mother and the ship? It had seemed so important only a second ago, but now it escaped him, thoughts lost on the breeze.

He shook his head. It didn't matter. What mattered most was right in front of him. He smiled at his son.

"I'm sorry, Jonas," he said. "Show me again."

A piece of paper was presented to him. It was covered in bright, colourful images, a lopsided house, wobbly trees, and three large grinning stick figures. A magnificent work of art, thought Rip though he was perhaps a touch biased. Either way, it still seemed quite good for a six year old.

Jonas began to enthusiastically explain the picture and Rip listened dutifully as his son pointed out who was who and what they were doing. There proved to be quite a story behind the image. Jonas had always had a vivid imagination.

"It's wonderful," said Rip. "Do you suppose I could have this one to take with me when I leave?"

Jonas' face became crestfallen. "Do you have to go? Can't you stay here with me and Mummy?"

Part of Rip wanted to. He loved his life as a Time Master, he truly did, but he loved his family too, and it kept getting harder and harder to leave them. He had to remind himself of his mission, remind himself that there was a universe of people out there counting on him to protect them and to make sure time moved on the correct path.

"You know I can't," he said, reaching out a hand to gently touch Jonas' cheek. "But I'll come back. I promise."

The sad expression refused to leave Jonas' face so Rip tried another tactic.

"How about while I'm away you paint me a new picture? You can paint me a new picture each time I'm away. That way you'll always have something new to show me when I come back and I'll always have a new picture to take with me when I leave."

Jonas' eyes lit up. "I could paint nextdoor's new dog."

"You can paint whatever you like," said Rip. "Come here," he added as he pulled Jonas into a hug. "I love you."

Jonas' tiny arms wrapped around him. "Love you too."

Rip held onto Jonas as long as he could, suddenly not wanting to let go, but soon the boy was squirming to get away. He opened his arms and Jonas dashed off without a goodbye likely heading off to begin Rip's new picture already.

A horrible pang hit Rip's chest as he watched him go, one he couldn't explain.

"Are you alright?"

He looked over to see Miranda standing beside the couch.

"I don't know," he said quietly, his eyes going back to the place Jonas had just vacated. "I just have this feeling I've forgotten something important."

"Like making dinner?" Miranda suggested.

Rip shook his head. "No, that's not it." Then processing what she had said, he turned to look at her with a frown. "Is that your way of suggesting I make dinner?"

Miranda gave one of her impish smiles. "Could be. It does need doing."

Rip let out a chuckle. "Well, heaven forbid I ignore a suggestion from my wife." He got to his feet and went over to her. "How does chicken risotto sound to you?"

"It sounds absolutely lovely."

They shared a kiss, then wrapped their arms around each other in a hug.

As Rip held Miranda, he felt the unexplained pang in his chest again. It was like being dragged down into a dark pit, the hollow emptiness stealing the air from his lungs. He clung even tighter to her not wanting to let go, never ever wanting to let go.

"Rip?" Miranda squeaked in protest

Realizing he was holding her too tight, Rip eased his grip though he still didn't let go.

It was enough though for Miranda to be able to push away. "What...?" She trailed off when she saw his face and her expression became one of concern. "Rip, what's wrong?" Reaching up, she took his face in her hands and wiped away one of the tears Rip hadn't even realized were falling down his face.

"I don't know," said Rip, and he let out a sob as the tears continued to fall. "I don't know."

Miranda pulled him back into a hug. "It's alright," she said, rubbing a hand down his back. "It'll be alright."

Rip clung to her again as more sobs shook him. It felt like he was losing, no, had lost something, something he loved with all his heart, but he didn't know what it was.

"Listen," Miranda continued, "I'll make dinner. You can have a lie down, or maybe some hot chocolate?"

More tears fell down Rip's face. As much as he appreciated it, this didn't feel like the sort of thing hot chocolate would cure.

Pain suddenly rang through Rip's head, and he pulled back from Miranda, reaching for his temple.

"Rip?" Panic was starting to edge its way into Miranda's voice.

The pain grew worse, but at the same time, things started slotting into place, bits of forgotten memory, or in this case, bits of things that were yet to come.

Rip gazed at his wife knowing she was long gone and he would likely never see her again. Tears stung his eyes once more. He reached out to touch her cheek. "I'm sorry."

Tearing his gaze away, Rip deliberately sought out the clock on the mantelpiece.

The time was...

 _Shaken, he welcomed the numbing void of green this time. Was this some sort of purgatory he had found himself in? Was he being punished for his sins? It seemed unfair to call getting the chance to hug his wife and son again torture, but having them wretched from him once more..._

 _His head ached. That seemed to be a worrying theme throughout these jumps, and now it was occurring here as well. At least, it meant he still had a head. His body felt like a thing that only half-existed in this place like the vision of the engine room surrounding him, there and yet not there._

 _He needed to find out what had happened, what events had led to this and when they had occured. His memories were still incomplete, fractured into pieces. If he could just figure it out, then maybe he could stop this from ever happening._

 _As the clock ticked, the swirling, shimmering green embraced him and once more drew him away._

"And... and..."

Rip shook his head. What was...?

The glass in his hand slipped from his fingers and shattered loudly against the floor scattering whiskey and broken glass. Rip stared down at it in confusion. He hadn't even realized he had been holding it.

"Ha!" Mick exclaimed from the other side of the parlour. "I knew you were a lightweight."

Looking up, Rip realized he was in his study at the back of the Waverider's bridge, surrounded by his sepia-coloured collection of knickknacks and his team.

The Legends, Sara, Mick, Ray, Martin, and Jax, were lounging in various places around the room, all with drinks in their hands and all gazing at him expectantly.

"Sorry. What was I saying?"

Ray's lips spread into a warm grin. "You were just saying that we did a really good job on the mission, and that we're a super awesome team and you're very proud of us."

A number of raised eyebrows were aimed at Ray from various members of the team.

"What?" Ray said with a shrug. "I can dream, can't I?"

Rip frowned. His thoughts felt as scattered as the broken glass on the parlour floor and he couldn't seem to piece them back together. Something was wrong, but what?

"Rip?" said Sara when he had remained silent too long.

"Hmm?" said Rip, distractedly. "Uh, yes, yes." He waved a hand in Ray's direction. "Whatever Dr. Palmer said."

That drew even more raised eyebrows and several looks of confusion.

"I told you something was off with him," said Jax.

His expression growing concerned, Martin put down his glass and went over to Rip. "Captain, are feeling alright?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine," Rip insisted.

There was something important he had forgotten and his forehead furrowed as he tried to think what it was. Unfortunately, his thoughts remained scattered, his memory foggy. It felt like the answers were there but just out of his reach.

An ache began in his head.

"He was off during the mission too," observed Ray.

The mission... Something sparked in Rip's mind. "The mission? You mean the mission in Lagos?"

The team gazed at him as if he had just turned a particularly interesting shade of blue.

"Yeah," said Sara, incredulously. "The mission we were just on."

"Right. Right. Of course." There was something very important about the mission. If only he could remember... "We were retrieving a dark energy generator from the 21st century and got attacked by time mercenaries."

Sara nodded. "Yes, but—"

"We succeeded," Rip continued, still trying to get things straight in his head. "We completed the mission and got the generator, but the Waverider suffered damage during the attack."

The Legends exchanged looks.

"If Rip's gone crazy," said Mick, "can I be captain?"

"No," was the resounding response from the rest of the team.

Mick scowled. "I didn't want to be captain anyway," he grumbled and went to refill his glass.

"Captain, perhaps you should sit down," said Martin, reaching out a hand to take Rip's arm.

Rip dodged out of the way.

Something was wrong. He didn't know what, but something was definitely wrong.

"The repairs..." He went over to Jax and grabbed a hold of his arm. "How bad was the damage? Did we fix everything?"

Jax gazed at him, wide-eyed. "Yeah. Well, I mean we got all the important stuff. Gideon's auto-repair systems are taking care of the rest. What's—"

"Gideon," Rip called out, letting go of Jax. "What's the status of the engines?"

"The engines are currently functioning at 98% efficiency. I should have them back at 100% within the next two hours," the A.I. replied, obediently.

Maybe it was something else, thought Rip. Maybe the problem wasn't with the ship. "Do you detect anything unusual outside, any other ships or perhaps some sort of anomaly?"

"Negative," she said, then added, her voice growing softer and tinged with concern, "However, I believe a trip to medbay might be advisable, Captain. You are showing undue signs of distress."

"No." Rip shook his head. "I have to... I have to..."

"She's right." Sara began approaching Rip, slowly, cautiously, hands held palm out. "Why don't we just head down to the medbay and—"

"No, no," Rip repeated. "Something's wrong."

"What's wrong," said Sara, "is you're acting really weird right now."

"You don't understand," said Rip, moving out of the way just as she tried to reach for him. The others tried to grab hold of him too, but he backed away from them, heading out of the parlour and on to the bridge. "I need to—"

He turned and stopped, frozen by the sight before him.

Swirling, churning, shimmering green. It stood before him, the undulating light of the swirling currents of energy shinning upon him.

The temporal zone. He had gazed on its sight through the ship's forward window countless times, but this time it triggered something.

He cried out, gripping his head as pain lanced through him.

The team surrounded him voicing their concern, but he paid no attention.

He remembered now. He remembered being trapped within the green energy, the jumps back and forth through time. He now knew what was happening, but he still didn't know what was causing it.

The green energy... It reassembled the temporal zone. Maybe it was connected, but how?

"Rip?"

He felt a gentle hand on his arm and he turned to see Sara gazing at him.

"We have the check the engines again," he said, a frantic edge to his voice. "Something's going to happen. I don't know what, but it's made time go wrong somehow. We need to—"

"We need to get you to the medbay," insisted Sara. "You're not well."

"No, no, no, no!" The pounding in Rip's head seemed to agree with her, but he ignore it. "You have to listen to me. I don't know what's going to happen, but I've feeling it's going to happen soon. We're all in danger."

He stared pleadingly at her, but he could tell from the doubtful look in her eyes that she didn't believe him. He turned to look at the rest of the team and saw only confusion and concern.

"Please, Sara."

Their eyes met, and for a moment, Rip thought he was getting through to her, but then she looked away.

"Mick," she said, nodding to the larger man.

Mick came over and took a hold of Rip, his fingers wrapping tightly around Rip's arm in a solid grip Rip knew he had little chance of escaping from.

Sara gazed sadly at Rip. "Take him to the medbay."

"No," Rip protested as Mick began dragging him away. "You can't."

"Don't worry, Rip," said Ray. "We'll take you to medbay and get everything sorted out. Everything will be fine."

Rip shook his head. "I really wish that were so."

It was clear he wouldn't be able to get anymore answers there.

He gazed up at the ceiling. "Gideon, what time is it?"

The A.I. replied automatically. "It is..."

 _As the green spun its way around him once more, Rip sighed. Every time he seemed to be making progress another obstacle was thrown in his path. It seemed even when he was cognizant enough to realize what was going on, it was impossible to do anything._

 _The voices came carrying through the air again, calling to him._

 _He knew whose voices they were now. They were his team, his group of heroic misfits. It had been both a pain and a joy working with them. He didn't think anyone had ever frustrated him more, and yet there was something so remarkable about each of them, a fire and a light which seemed unconquerable._

 _And now they needed him._

 _He was on the verge of finding the answers. The event that had caused this must have occurred shortly after the mission in Lagos. He felt sure of it. Why else would he keep going back to that point. But what had happened and how?_

 _His head still ached, the pain seemingly now inescapable._

 _He would find a way. He had to. He just needed to keep trying._

 _The clock ticked like it was counting down the seconds he had left and he was pulled away._

...to the library.

Rip took in his surroundings.

He was still on the ship, seated in the Waverider's library surrounded by its ceiling high bookshelves and collection of curios from throughout the timeline. It seemed this time the green energy hadn't taken him very far.

Rip's eyes widened in sudden realization.

He remembered. He remembered what was happening. He hadn't forgotten. The memories of this time hadn't taken over.

"Thank God," he said in relief, leaning forward onto the desk in front of him and placing his head in his hands.

Maybe now he would finally have the chance to find out what was going on.

"We've got to stop meeting like this."

Rip looked up in surprise.

Sara was standing in the doorway, a wry smile on her face and a bottle of vodka in her hand.

"Sorry, what?" He tried to recall when this was and what had happened, but he was drawing a blank. Pieces appeared to be still missing from his memory.

"Me and you," said Sara as she strolled towards him. "The dead of the night. A bottle of booze."

"Oh, right," said Rip. They had met like this a number of times, two incurable insomniacs finding comfort in each other's company, but which occasion was this? He had to be careful to not change any part of the past. Still, it was nice to no longer have Sara looking at him as if he were going crazy.

Once she was close enough, Sara offered the bottle of vodka to him.

Rip took it. He briefly thought of finding a glass, then decided not to bother and took a swig straight from the bottle.

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Bad night?"

Rip let out a snort. "Bad lifetime," he said as he handed it back.

"I know the feeling." Sara dragged over a chair and sat down across from him. "Actually, I'm glad to find you here. I was kind of hoping we could talk."

"Talk?" Rip said with a touch of apprehension."About what?"

"About you," said Sara. "About all the stuff that's happened recently."

Rip frowned, no clue what she was talking about.

Sara seemed to take his confusion as an aversion to the subject. She sighed and said, "Look, I know you don't like talking about this stuff, but I wanted to make sure you were still okay with your decision."

"What decision?" he asked, still at a lost.

"For me to continue on as captain now you're back."

Cold washed over Rip. "Oh," was all he could say.

He had no memory of this, no memory of this conversation, no memory of giving up his captaincy to Sara, no idea why he would do so. Was this his future? If the future could be said to exist when time itself seemed to have lost much of its meaning. It would make sense. He seemed to be bouncing back and forth across his own timeline, so of course, he would see the future as well as the past. He had a feeling it had happened before, but this time he didn't have the memories necessary to navigate it. His current memories ended with the mission in Lagos which he supposed confirmed the fact that that was where everything originated.

"I understand why you made it," continued Sara "I know you didn't feel you had the right to continue leading after everything that happened, but that can't make stepping back and letting someone else be in charge any easier."

Rip nodded numbly. What had happened? He wondered. What had been so bad that he had stepped down?

"Do you regret it?" Sara asked.

Did he? It was hard to regret something you didn't even remember doing, but how much had he actually enjoyed being captain of this team? He had begun as such in order to save his family and he had failed. He had continued on in order to protect the timeline. Had he failed that too? He might care about the team, but he couldn't say captaining them had always been a pleasure, and if they had managed to find a way to get by without him as captain, he supposed he should be grateful, feel accomplished even that he had managed to inspire them to become the team he had always believed they could be.

"No," he said, honestly. "Not when I know the team is in such good hands."

He meant it. He had always thought there was a strength in her, a potential for something greater, and captaincy looked good on her. She seemed more confident and at peace with herself, like she had found her purpose.

Sara ducked her head, a rare blush colouring her features as she smiled. "Well, I can't say it's been easy. This team..."

"Can be a bit of a handful?" suggested Rip, the corner of his lip quirking.

"Now there's an understatement." Sara took another swig from the bottle. "I used to get so annoyed at you, you know," she said, once she was done, "by all your rules and your lectures, but I get it now. Having that responsibility for the integrity of the timeline and the safety of the team. It's tough." She raised the bottle in a salute. "I take back half the bad things I ever said about you."

Rip raised an eyebrow. "Only half?"

"You seriously want to question the other half?" said Sara with a pointed look.

He let out a chuckle, but it was cut short when the pain in his head suddenly redoubled and he winced.

Sara's eyes narrowed in concern. "Are you alright?"

"It's... it's just a headache," he said trying to make it sound like nothing.

An extremely nasty headache, to tell the truth, one accompanied by an odd series of images. They flashed through Rip's mind, things he felt he should remember but didn't. Were these the memories he was supposed to have during this time period? He saw himself in the middle of a rapier fight on top a bridge, ridding a horse across a snow covered battlefield, stumbling through the Waverider as the ship shook around him, tied to a chair while a white-haired man with a knife stood over him, speaking to a line of red-coated British soldiers, sitting in the ship's brig, aiming a gun at Jax, squeezing his fingers around Sara's neck...

The colour drained from Rip's face. He felt ill. What had happened to him? What had he done between his present and this future? What had he become?

"Rip?" Reaching forward, Sara placed a hand on his arm. "It's okay to be not alright you know. No one's going to blame you, not after everything you've been through."

Rip swallowed. "I..." He didn't know what to say.

"I mean the number of times your mind was fucked with would mess anyone up."

There were more flashes of memory. The feel of the time drive beneath his fingers, a needle in the base of his neck.

"And Commander Heywood dying on top of that," Sara continued. "I know that must have been a blow."

Commander Heywood? Henry Heywood? He thought he would never see his friend again, and yet now he remembered sitting strapped in one of the bridge chairs, the sun shinning in his eyes as he told Henry how to open the airlock that would save the Waverider and take his life.

Rip closed his eyes. He thought he had survived darkness and pain in his past, but now it seemed his future just held more of the same.

"Rip?" Sara said again.

Pain stabbed through him again like someone had driven an ice pick through his forehead. He clutched his head and let out a moan.

"Damn it, Rip!" Sara exclaimed getting to her feet and going over to his side. "I knew something wasn't right. Talk to me, you idiot. Tell me what's wrong."

Raising his head, Rip squinted at her through the haze of pain.

She crouched down beside his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Please, Rip."

Rip took a deep breath and slowly let it out. There was a good chance he would end up being called crazy again, but what did he have to lose? "Do you recall a mission in Lagos, Nigeria sometime ago?"

Sara's eyes widened. "Shit."

That wasn't the reaction Rip had been expecting.

"I knew that damn thing was going to come back and bite us in the ass one day," Sara cursed.

The hand on his shoulder tightened its grip.

"Listen to me," she said, her gaze intensifying as it bore into his. "You're going to be fine. You just have to hold on."

"Hold on?" said Rip, his tone growing bitter. "Hold on for what? For this? What sort of future is this?"

The dark images continued to barrage him, shadows of memories giving him just enough of a glimpse of what the future held to sicken him. Had he spent so long fighting the good fight only to end up like this? Attacked by both the images and the pain in his head, he felt despair starting to take over.

"A future which you survived," answered Sara, her voice soft but unwavering. "Yes, a lot of bad shit happened. Yes, you went through a lot, but you made it through the other side. You made it home."

Home? Did she mean the Waverider or the team? Did he even have a true home after everything that happened? He had spent so much of his life drifting from one place to another, finding places he thought he belonged only to lose them again. Was it even worth it to keep going knowing he would just face more of the same?

Sara must have seen the doubt flickering across his face. "If you won't hold on for yourself," she said, "then hold on for the team, for me. We didn't go through hell to get you back only to lose you to some timey-wimey bullshit."

Involuntarily a corner of Rip's mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile. There was that stubbornness again, the pigheaded stubbornness of Sara's he had always admired. That was the reason he knew she would make a good captain, because no matter what happened she would never give up, not on the mission and not on the team.

"I'll do my best," he said and let out a huff. "Heaven knows I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

Sara smirked. "You're not an inconvenience, trust me. An annoyance sometimes, yes, but never an inconvenience."

Rip smiled back. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me how this all works out."

"I would," said Sara, patting his shoulder as she stood back up, "but believe it or not sometimes I actually listen when you warn me about not messing with the timeline."

Rip rolled his eyes. "Of all the times for you to actually listen to me."

"Just hold on. You'll make it through this, I promise."

Rip nodded. He wanted to press her for answers again, but he knew she was right. They couldn't risk upsetting the timeline anymore than it already was. It was time he left.

"What time is it?" he asked, not wanting to return to the green void, but knowing he had no choice.

A crease appeared between Sara's brows. She glanced at a clock behind him. "It's..."

 _As he was battered on all sides by the swirling green eddies, Rip tried to remember his promise to Sara. It was hard to hold on though. The green pulled at him, trying to take away what little awareness of his fate he had gained. How long had he been trapped here? It felt like forever._

 _If he focused, he could see the engine room through the shimmers of green. He had a feeling he had to get there, but what was the point when he didn't even know what he was meant to do once he had? Was he meant to shut off the time drive? Would that stop what was happening to him?_

 _The time drive was only a dozen feet in front of him. He tried to move towards it, but his body felt distant and sluggish. It was like trying to move in a dream. He gazed down at his foot and tried to will it to move. Through an enormous amount of effort, he managed to take a step forward._

 _Suddenly, the world around him changed. The green swirling energy grew stronger, faster, the raging storm becoming a tornado. Rip felt as if he was going to be torn apart. In front of him, the image of the engine room flickered, and a new light burst forth, a blast of orange tearing through everything in its path._

 _As Rip watched, the engine room and the rest of the Waverider exploded._

 _His screams were lost in the howling void as the clock ticked and he was pulled away._


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: We finally get some explanations._

 _Warning: This chapter is a little darker, angstier, and bloodier than the others._

 **Chapter 5**

Rip's hands shot out and clutched the edge of the desk in front of him, his knuckles growing white.

No. God, no.

He continued to clutch the desk as his heart pounded and his lungs heaved with ragged breaths.

Had what he'd seen been real? His throat still burned with the vestiges of his screams. The ship, the team, Gideon... Please say he hadn't lost everything he cared about again.

He gazed around him and realized he was seated at the back of a lecture hall at the Time Master Academy. Rows of desk curved around on descending tiers leading down to the dais where one of Rip's old professors sat in her wheelchair, wheeling back and forth as she spoke. Every so often she would gesture to an image on the screen behind her. Her voice echoed loudly through the large room, but Rip was having difficulty concentrating on what she was saying.

The people on either side of him were shooting curious glances in his direction. He let go of the desk and sat up doing his best to get his breathing back under control.

The persistent ache in his head was still there and had been joined by the rolling twist of nausea in his stomach. He felt worn out too, fatigue weighing heavily on him.

But none of that mattered.

He had seen the Waverider blow up.

And yet, he couldn't have. He had just been talking to Sara in the future, a future that wouldn't be possible if the ship were lost in the present. It couldn't have been real.

Rip shook his head.

As much as he wanted to believe that, he knew it wasn't true. He had been a Time Master too long. He knew the truth. He knew how time really worked. The future with Sara as captain might have simply been a possible future, one that would never come to pass if he didn't stop what was happening. He had had the pressing feeling there was something he desperately needed to do throughout this entire ordeal, and now, he knew why.

He had to save the Waverider.

Whatever this thing was he was caught up in didn't just have him trapped. It also threatened the ship and everyone onboard her. He had to stop it somehow, and yet, he still wasn't sure what it even was.

A brunette head several levels below him caught his eye.

Miranda...

She was sitting there in her grey uniform, her hair tied up in the bun she'd always worn, watching the lecture attentively as she took careful notes.

How many times had he sat in that lecture hall staring at her when he should have been focusing on his professors? He had spent so many lectures alternating between dreaming of holding her and trying to convince himself to break it off. That had been a different time, back when he had actually believed what the Time Masters said was true, that love and attachment were a threat.

He had loved Miranda. He had been unable to stop loving her and he had lost her.

Jonas had been a miracle. Rip had loved his son more than he thought possible and he had lost him too.

He had never wanted to love the Legends, and yet...

It shouldn't even be possible to love an A.I., and yet...

Was he destined to lose everyone he loved? Maybe the Time Masters had been right after all.

"...as in the case of temporal psychodisplacement..."

Rip's head shot up, the word catching his attention and bringing his focus back to the world around him.

The professor had wheeled her chair up to the front of the platform. Behind her the screen showed an image of a brain covered in a pattern of various colours.

"Out of all temporal disorders," the professor was saying, "psychodisplacement is one of the rarest and therefore the least understood. It involves the random displacement of a person's consciousness along their own timeline. Victims will suddenly find themselves occupying the bodies of their younger or older selves as their mind goes backwards and forwards in time."

Rip's eyes widened.

That was it! That was precisely what was happening to him. Had he finally found answers at last?

"One of the most tricky things in identifying this disorder is the fact people's knowledge of what's going on tends to vary. It can go from total awareness to visions of the past and future to only a vague sense of deja vu. This is most likely due to the brain's difficulty in integrating the displaced consciousness into its new location in the timeline and coping with the disparate knowledge brought with it."

Relief washed over Rip. He might still be trapped and the ship might still be in danger, but at least, now he knew what was happening to him. Just having a name for it made him feel better, less alone.

"The most common cause of psychodisplacementis is a fracture in time. Exposure to the temporal energies surrounding it can trigger the displacement causing the conscious to involuntarily start bouncing back and forth while leaving the body behind."

A fracture in time? Was there a time fracture inside the Waverider? Was he inside the fracture itself? How was that even possible? Rip wondered. It seemed as if the answers he was gaining were just leading to more questions. A fracture would explain why he had seen the Waverider blow up though. Such a thing could easily tear the ship apart.

"Prevention is easy. Simply don't go playing around with time fractures."

There was scattered laughter throughout the class. Given his current circumstances, Rip didn't find the joke particularly amusing.

"Stopping the displacement? How easy that is depends on how easy it is to stop the fracture or to remove the victim from the source of temporal energy. Usually once that has been done, the psychodisplacement stops and the person recovers; however, there have been cases where someone's consciousness has become permanently lost in time."

Rip swallowed.

"Whatever the case, it is important to remove the victim quickly. Like the displacement of the body through time, the displacement of the consciousness is not natural and multiple consecutive occurrences can put a great deal of strain on a person's nervous system. The symptoms would be mild at first headaches, dizziness, nausea, but eventually, the temporal displacements will cause severe neural degeneration which if unstopped can be fatal."

Rip found himself gripping his desk again. The pain in his head appropriately chose that moment to make itself known once more. He took a shaky breath.

It didn't matter, he told himself. It just meant he had to act quickly. He had to save the Waverider before... he couldn't.

The professor rolled her chair to the back of the platform where the screen was showing a new image. "Now chronopsychosis..." she was saying, but Rip wasn't paying attention anymore.

He had got all the answers he was going to get from that place. He gave the back of Miranda's head a last wistful glance before turning to the large clock on the wall at the side of the room.

The time was...

 _Back again, the swirling green flowing around him and through him. He squinted past it, forcing his eyes to focus on what was beyond._

 _The Waverider's engine room stood there completely intact as if nothing had happened._

 _He let out a sob in relief._

 _They weren't gone. He hadn't lost them._

 _Time was clearly disrupted here, not flowing how it should do which meant the ship hadn't blown up, at least not yet, which meant he could stop it from happening, or that's what he hoped. The laws of time were tricky and it seemed as if here they were not only broken but fractured into a million pieces._

 _Was this a time fracture? He had only ever seen one from the outside. The similarities to the temporal zone would make sense as the same temporal energy flowed through both. He had to find a way stop it, or even better, prevent it from occurring in the first place. Something must have happened to the time drive. That was the only thing he could think of that could cause something like this. Maybe they had missed some of the damage done by the time mercenaries' ship._

 _He needed to get back to the Waverider, to the right point in the timeline. He needed to..._

 _Before he even had time to finish that thought, the ticking of the clock carried him away._

A wave of dizziness hit Rip. He reached out a hand and grabbed the back of a nearby chair.

"You okay?" asked a voice.

Rip rubbed his forehead. Would this cursed headache ever go away?

"I'm fine," he replied, only belatedly looking up to see who had spoken.

Henry Heywood aka Commander Steel stood before him, studying Rip with one of his usual inscrutable expressions.

Rip blinked in surprise.

Glancing around, he saw they were in the ruins of an abandoned house, the crumbling stone walls stained with mildew and the windows full of broken glass. The only furnishings in the small space were a battered table, a set of matching chairs, some old crates, and a map hanging on one of the walls.

Of course, thought Rip, Leipzig, 1956. They must only be days away from finding the Spear of Destiny.

"You don't look fine," Henry said pointedly.

"I'm just tired." It was more or less true. He certainly was tired, exceptionally so.

Henry put his hands on his hips and gave him a disapproving look. "You push yourself too hard. You need to take better care of yourself. Get some rest." He gestured to a bag of provisions lying on the table. "Eat something."

A snort escaped Rip. He'd forgotten Henry had been like this, a stone-faced leader one moment, a badgering mother hen the next.

"This quest is important," Rip said, "pushing myself is rather necessary." Something that was also true, for both this situation and his current predicament.

"Up to a point." Turning away, Henry gazed at the map on the wall. "We've got a lot of ground to cover tomorrow and we need to be at full strength in case we run into anymore trouble."

Rip winced. From what he recalled, the quest to retrieve the spear had been fraught with trouble, way more then it should have for a seemingly simple retrieval mission, but they had been successful in the end.

"I'm sure we'll manage," he said.

Henry turned back to him, a smile on his face. "I hope so. I'm really looking forward to seeing my baby boy again. I'm sure you know the feeling."

Rip's heart twisted in his chest. "All too well."

A draft blew through the broken windows causing a shiver to go down his spine.

He knew he shouldn't stay there. This place held no answers for him, but for some reason he didn't want to leave.

"You know if anyone had told me a few weeks ago that I'd be going on a quest for a mystical artifact with a guy from the future, I wouldn't have believed them." Henry shook his head. "I mean I've seen some pretty strange things, but this..."

"Strange is relative," said Rip with a wry smile. "There are more things on heaven and earth—"

"—than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Henry finished for him. "You're not the only one 'round here who can quote Shakespeare you know."

There was a familiar stab of pain in Rip's head. It was accompanied by an image, a memory, or rather a memory of a memory, something he shouldn't know and yet did.

Sitting on the bridge, the ship shaking around him, a voice coming through the coms. 'I'm in the cargo bay. Talk me through this.'

What had the Sara he'd met in the future said about Henry?

Rip felt the sudden need to sit down. He pulled up one of the chairs and collapsed into it.

A crease appeared between Henry's brows. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I'm fine," Rip insisted, ignoring the pain in his head and the return of the queasiness in his stomach. "I was just... thinking."

"About what? About the mission?"

Rip leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed his hands together. "Actually, I was thinking about something else."

Another breeze came through the broken windows stirring the dust in the room. Outside the sun was throwing out its last rays as it began to sink below the horizon

"There's an odd dichotomy that comes with being a time traveller," Rip said, softly. He gazed at Henry, his friend, standing there, strong and proud, completely unaware of the fate that would befall him. "It's funny, but for me everyone I know is essentially both dead and alive at the same time. It all depends on where, or rather when, I'm standing."

"Huh." Henry pulled over a chair and took a seat across from Rip. "I'd never thought about it that way. I suppose for you, in your time, I must be long gone."

Rip nodded, head bowed, unable to meet his eyes.

"It's kind of heartbreaking in a way," Henry observed thoughtfully. "It allows you to say goodbye, but never allows you to really let go."

Never before had truer words been spoken.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Henry frowned. "For what?"

"For everything!" Rip waved a hand in the air. "For bringing you and the others in on this mission, for putting you in harms way. I should have searched for the spear myself. I should never have involved you."

Henry leaned forward and fixed him with one of his famous steely stares. "In case you'd forgotten, this was our mission long before we ran into you, and even if it hadn't been, I would still consider it our duty to help." His eyes bore into Rip's one final time, as if ensuring his message had gotten across, and then he leaned back and looked away. "What you're doing is important and you need all the help you can get."

The guilt was still there, and Rip didn't think it would ever truly go away, but Henry's words helped. "Thank you, Commander. I really do appreciate all you've done."

"Like I said, it's my duty," said Henry. "And how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Henry."

"Henry," Rip repeated, obediently, the corner of his lip rising in a tiny smile.

Henry got up and went back over to the map. "So have you thought more on what we're going to do with the spear once we have it? I know you said—" He stopped abruptly, head swinging around to gaze at the door.

Rip heard it a moment later. The sound of approaching footsteps. He reached for his revolver and saw Henry doing the same.

They were about to take defensive positions when a knock sounded, two quick raps, a pause, and three more.

Both Rip and Henry relaxed.

"Guess they're done with the scouting already," said Henry as he went to the door. "Either that or Courtney got hungry again."

He unlocked the door and opened it to reveal Courtney and Charles otherwise known as Stargirl and Dr. Mid-Nite.

"Report," Henry said in greeting, his soldier side taking over.

"This place is deader than dead," replied Courtney as they came inside.

"There's no indication of patrols in the area," Charles elaborated, "but we should maintain watches during the night just in case."

Henry nodded. "Agreed."

Courtney came over to Rip and gestured at the table. "Where's dinner? I was expecting a five course meal, but it seems you two have just been sitting on your asses the whole time while we do all the hard work."

"Would a ration bar suffice?" asked Rip, taking one out of the bag on the table and holding it out to her.

Courtney rolled her eyes, but took it anyway.

"Commander," said Charles, "recommendation that we take extra rations with us on scouting missions for the sake of expediency."

Courtney made some sort of protest, but its meaning was lost due to her mouth being full of ration bar.

Henry grinned. "I think that can be arranged."

Rip grinned too. It was good to see his old friends. He had forgotten how much he had missed them. They hadn't known each other long, but they had grown quite close in that short time. It had been a simpler time too, one where Rip had been so sure about himself and his purpose. That was something else he missed.

Another stab of pain struck him. He did his best to hide it. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to completely prevent the sudden hitch in his breathing.

Charles turned to him, the usual dark goggles covering his eyes. The man could only truly see in utter darkness, but the rest of his senses worked quite well.

Frowning, he came over and placed a hand on Rip's shoulder. "My friend, are you well?"

Rip gazed up at him, about to reply when he was hit by another vision: a knife in his hand, blood and screams, Charles lying dead on the floor.

Shaken, Rip quickly moved away getting to his feet.

The others gazed at him in concern.

"I, uh..." He had stayed there too long. He had to go. "What time is it?"

Henry's eyes were narrowed in confusion, but he gazed down at the watch on his wrist. "It's..."

 _The stream of green ripped him away. He was glad it did. It had been so tempting to stay there, to stay in that peaceful moment surrounded by his friends, to give up the fight and the struggle. He was so tired, so so tired, and if he hadn't had that dark vision, he doubted he would have been able to leave Henry and the others behind._

 _What would happen if he were given that choice again? What if he found himself with Jonah once more during that blissful time before their falling out? What if he saw Miranda and Jonas again? Could he find the strength to turn away from his son?_

 _But he knew he couldn't stay in those times. He didn't belong there, and every moment he stayed inside the time fracture cost him, every jump wore him down a little bit more._

 _He thought of his dark vision, the knife, the blood._

 _And there were other things out there, a future he didn't want to know and he hoped would never come to pass._

 _He needed to get back to the Waverider. He needed to concentrate on saving the ship and the team. Summoning all his strength he focused on where he wanted to go. The jumps in time had taken him where he needed to go before. Maybe they would do so again._

 _The clock ticked and..._

Opening his eyes, Rip gazed at his familiar surroundings and sighed in relief.

The Waverider.

It wasn't the part of the ship where he had hoped to end up, but it was far from the first time he had woken up in the medbay with no idea how he had got there.

Now he just had to find out when in time he was.

He sat up on the medical couch and let out a groan as a wave of dizziness and pain struck him. The pain from his headache seemed to have travelled to every part of him leaving his whole body aching. He clutched at his head as the world spun.

"Easy now."

A pair of hands pressed him back down on the bed.

Rip took several steadying breaths before squinting up at the person leaning over him.

"Martin?"

Martin patted him on the shoulder. "You gave us quite a fright, Captain."

"I..." Rip's brows drew together. "What?"

He didn't remember this. Was it some moment he had forgotten or another glimpse into the future?

"You collapsed," Martin explained. "You were raving about something being wrong, asked Gideon for the time, and just fainted."

"I don't remember that part," said Rip, and then his eyes widened as he realized what that meant. "The Lagos mission!" he exclaimed. He was back at the origin point of the time fracture. Getting his arms under him, he began trying to push himself upright again. "I need to check the time drive."

Martin pushed him back down. Rip wanted to fight against him, but his body didn't seem to be cooperating.

"You need to rest," Martin chided. "Gideon isn't completely sure what's wrong with you, but her scans showed..." He trailed off and visibly swallowed.

"Her scans showed what?" asked Rip.

Martin sighed, clearly not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "Her scans showed widespread neural degeneration in your brain. She's being trying to treat it, but it just seems to be getting worse."

"Oh."

He shouldn't be surprised. He'd known it was a possibility, and yet the news still hit him hard. How many jumps would it take before the damage became irreversible?

Gathering himself together, Rip took a deep breath and shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"What?" Martin exclaimed in disbelief.

Rip pushed himself up and this time managed it without any resistance from Martin though he was forced to stay seated on the edge of the bed as he waited for the world to stop spinning.

"I need to get to the time drive. I don't how much time we have left."

"Rip," said Martin. "I don't think you understand. If the degeneration gets any worse, it will be fatal."

"And like I said, it doesn't matter," Rip repeated. "The ship is in danger. I have to do something." He removed the medical cuff from his wrist and prepared to stand up, but he was stopped by Martin once again who placed his hands on Rip's shoulders.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice stern, his eyes boring into Rip's. "I don't know where you got the idea that the ship is in danger, but even if it is, your life most certainly does matter."

"Martin..."

"It matters to us. I know how much you care about this ship and this team, but we care about you too. We might not always act like it, but we do."

Rip stared at Martin in shock. "I... I... uh..." He didn't know what to say.

"So stop with all this self-sacrificing nonsense," said Martin, giving Rip's shoulders a squeeze and finally letting him go. "If not for the team, then for Gideon. When you collapsed, she almost had a panic attack. I didn't even realize that was possible for an A.I."

"It is not," Gideon declared from above. "I did not have a panic attack. I was merely... concerned about the captain's condition."

Martin raised his eyebrows. "Which I suppose is why you turned on every alarm on the ship."

"I had to ensure you got him to the medbay in time," Gideon protested, defensively.

Martin let out a snort.

"I'm sorry, Gideon," said Rip. "And Martin, I should apologize to you and the team too. I didn't mean to make anyone worry. I just..." How did he tell them he honestly hadn't realized anyone would care that much? "I guess I tend to forget sometimes that I'm not in this on my own."

"Well, you're not," said Martin. "So maybe you could explain to us what's going on for once."

The urge to get up and try to find out what was wrong with the ship was enormous, but Rip knew he owed Martin an explanation. He took a deep breath as he tried to figure out how to describe what was going on.

"I've been travelling through time."

Martin raised an eyebrow.

Rip rolled his eyes. "I mean more so than usual. My consciousness seems to be jumping back and forth along my own timeline whether I want it to or not."

"Fascinating," said Martin, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.

The corner of Rip's lips twitched. He shouldn't have expected anything else from Martin.

"I wasn't even aware of what was going on at first," he continued. "My mind was scrambled and the memories of the times I travelled to kept taking over. I was only given tiny hints that something was wrong."

"Hence your recent raving," put in Martin.

Rip nodded. "But I was eventually able to piece my memories back together and figure it out."

"But what could cause such a thing?"

"My best guess is some sort of time fracture. Between the jumps in time, I keep finding myself in the Waverider's engine room surrounded by a storm of green temporal energy. That seems to be the present moment for me and the origin of everything."

"A time fracture is the most likely cause of temporal psychodisplacement," said Gideon. "If that truly is what's going on, then it would also explain the neural degeneration."

Rip grimaced. "Yes, it turns out having your consciousness flung through time is bad for the brain."

"Then we must stop it as soon as possible," said Martin. "Is the actual neural imprint of your current consciousness travelling through time or are the electrical impulses—"

"We don't have time for scientific explanations right now," said Rip, cutting him off. "I'm not the only one in danger." He swallowed. "I saw the Waverider explode, Martin. I don't know whether it was due to the time fracture or another consequence of whatever caused it, but I have to stop it from happening."

Martin's eyes widened in alarm. "But if you've been travelling to the future as well as the past, surely we all survive?"

"How many times must I remind you? Time is always in flux. The futures I've been seeing may never come to pass if I don't stop what is happening now."

"Of course, of course," said Martin. "So you are certain the 'event' you described is going to happen soon?"

Rip frowned. "I believe so." He rubbed his temple. The pain in his head was increasing once again. "I'm afraid the past, present, and future are all a bit mixed up for me at the moment. I still think there are things I'm missing, but the memories up to this point are the clearest, and I keep coming back to this point, to the mission in Lagos."

"Then what causes the time fracture? I assume one can't just spring up spontaneously."

"Time fractures," said Rip, "usually occur when there's extreme damage to the timeline, but there are other ways they can be created, people experimenting with technology they don't understand, the misuse of temporal weapons, faulty time drives."

The alarm returned to Martin's face. "You think something's wrong with the ship's time drive?"

Rip grimaced. "It seems likely. Jax and I must have missed some of the damage done by the time mercenaries."

"Sensors indicate the time drive is functioning normally," said Gideon.

"Then the sensors must be faulty," declared Rip, flinging a hand into the air. "It's the only cause I can think of. We have to shut down the time drive until we're sure it's safe."

"That seems a bit extreme," said Martin, anxiously. "We're still travelling through the temporal zone. What if we become lost in time?"

"The ship blowing up is pretty extreme. We can't risk making another jump until we're sure there's no danger."

"I see your point."

Rip nodded up at the ceiling. "Do it, Gideon."

A shudder went through the Waverider. The hum so ubiquitous it usually wasn't noticed stopped and the motion of the ship shifted as they went from being propelled through the temporal zone to simply drifting.

Several cries of surprise came floating through the medbay door.

"I think our teammates are going to want some explanations too," said Martin.

"Well, you can give them while I check the time drive," said Rip, pushing himself up off the medical couch.

He almost fell back down as the world started spinning again the moment his feet hit the floor. Fortunately, Martin reached out a hand to steady him.

"Are you sure you're up to it?" he asked.

"I have to be," said Rip.

They began heading out of the medbay, Martin hovering at Rip's side in case he should need help again, but they hadn't made it more than a few steps when another shudder went through the ship, this one a lot more violent than the first.

Rip and Martin were flung to the side and Rip only avoided ending up on the floor by grasping hold of the doorframe.

Lights flashed and alarms sounded throughout the ship.

"What the hell?!" exclaimed Rip. "Gideon?"

"A time fracture has appeared in the engine room," announced the A.I.

Rip paled. "No, that's not possible. We shut down the time drive."

"Then something else must have caused the time fracture," said Martin.

"But what?" Rip demanded. "Gideon, can you detect the source of the fracture."

"I'm afraid the temporal distortions caused by the fracture are interfering with my sensors," Gideon replied.

"Bollocks!"

The ship shook again and they were forced to grab hold of the walls for support once more.

"The time fracture is destabilizing the ship," said Gideon. "I estimate complete structural collapse within the next ten minutes."

In his mind, Rip saw it again, the burst of orange light, the engine room along with the rest of the ship blown to pieces. After everything he had been through, he had failed to stop it happening.

"We have to find a way to close it," he said. "It's the only way to save the ship."

"But how?" said Martin. "We don't even know what caused it in the first place, and by the time we find out, it'll probably be too late."

Rip knew what he had to do. "Fortunately, I happen to have a little spare time on my hands."

Martin grabbed him by the shoulder. "You can't keep jumping through time. It's killing you. How many more jumps until it's too much?"

"I don't have a choice," said Rip.

"There has to be another way," insisted Martin. "Why don't we evacuate in the jumpship?"

Another jolt went through the ship.

"The jumpship is offline," said Gideon.

"There's your answer," said Rip, gesturing to the ceiling. "I couldn't leave Gideon anyway."

Martin sighed. "Alright, then go, but try to do as few jumps as possible."

"I'll do my best," Rip promised.

"How do you initiate a jump?"

"Usually it involves me finding out the time."

Even amidst the chaos of the alarms and the shaking of the ship, Martin's eyes lit up. "Fascinating. Knowing the exact time must somehow alert your mind that it's in the wrong temporal location and trigger it to—"

"Martin," Rip interrupted.

Martin winced sheepishly. "Right, sorry."

Rip gazed up at the ceiling. "Gideon?"

There was a pause before she spoke, and when she did her voice was softer than usual. "You really wouldn't leave me?"

A sad smile spread across Rip's face. "Never."

The shaking of the ship increased as Gideon announced, "The time is..."

 _The green whirled around him even more violently than before. Was it getting worse because he was getting close to finding out the truth or was it because he was running out of time? He had to find the source of the fracture. If it wasn't a fault with the time drive, then what was it?_

 _Hoping he might be able to see it, he peered through the green to the engine room beyond, but everything around him was chaos. He tried to take a step forward like he had before and the green fought against him. It was almost as if it were alive. After an enormous effort, he managed to inch forward slightly._

 _Orange light burst forth and the engine room blew apart._

 _Raising his hands, Rip shielded his face from the onslaught._

 _The light faded, and when Rip lowered his hands, he saw the place had been restored._

 _And then it happened again, and again._

 _Rip's heart beat frankly. Even though it didn't last, it felt very real each time the ship exploded._

 _He had to save the Waverider, stop this event from becoming permanent._

 _Fighting back against the storm of temporal energy, he tried to push forward once more, his body straining. He didn't even know where he was trying to get to, but he refused to just stand there anymore._

 _He managed to take another step forward, then the ticking of the clock sounded, and before he could do anything he was pulled away._

The force he'd been fighting against suddenly gone, Rip flew forward, stumbling clumsily. He would have likely ended up on the floor, but instead he careened shoulder first into a wall. He bounced off, and then fell forward leaning against it, using the wall for support as he stood there, heart pounding, lungs gasping.

It was a long while before he felt well enough to let go of the wall. Even when he did so, there seemed to be an odd tilt to the world. The pain in his head had reached migraine levels and his body felt like it had been wrung through.

He gazed around at his surroundings.

Screens displaying complex data flickered back at him. He was in a large dimly lit room made almost entirely of metal. One of the walls curved up and around joining with the ceiling and giving the place an odd oval shape. There were no windows so it could have been virtually anywhere, but the strings of data on the screens and the metal and glass design of the sparse furnishings suggested he was sometime in the 31th century. He had been there before though this particular place didn't ring any bells.

Reaching up, he was about to wipe the sweat off his forehead when he realized there was something in his hand. He looked down at it.

The sight made his eyes widen and his heart faltered in his chest.

He was holding a piece of the Spear of Destiny, a piece he should have never seen again, but worse than that was the blood. The spear was soaked in it and more was splattered across his hands.

What on Earth had happened?

Rip took an involuntary step back and almost slipped on a wet spot on the floor. Slowly, he looked down.

More blood. There was a trail of it starting from where he stood and going across the floor. Rip followed it with his eyes. The trail led to a much larger pool of red, and there, in the middle, was a body.

Not wanting to know but needing to, Rip went over.

The body was of a dark-skinned man wearing a white lab coat. The coat was stained red with blood and the man lay sprawled on his side. Broken glass and fallen furniture surrounded him, all signs he hadn't gone quietly.

Rip walked around and knelt beside him so he could see his face.

A familiar visage gazed vacantly back at him.

Rip swallowed and his face crumpled with grief. "Charles..."

It was Dr. Mid-Nite, older than when Rip had last saw him and without his customary dark goggles, but it was definitely him. His torso looked like it had been torn apart.

What had happened to him?

Rip's eyes went from the long jagged hole in Charles' abdomen to the blood soaked piece of wood in his hand.

He quickly got to his feet. "No." He backed away from the corpse shaking his head. "No, no, no, no. I..."

This couldn't be real. In no possible future could he have... He must be mistaken. There had to be another explanation.

He needed to get out of there.

He frantically searched for a clock, but there were none visible, so he searched himself instead hoping in this future he still carried his pocket watch with him. His fingers failed to find it. They did however latch on to something else. He pulled it out.

It was a knife. An effort had been made to clean it, but it was still marred with spots of blood.

Rip tossed the knife away from him.

"No." His voice shook as did the rest of him. "No, no, no. No!"

The last 'no' grew to a scream echoing through the room.

Rip screwed his eyes shut.

This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. He rejected this future, rejected it with every fibre of his being. Clenching his hands into fists, he tired to will it away.

And...

 _He was back in the swirling green, too shaken to be shocked by the change. This time as the storm raged around him he didn't fight it. He simply collapsed to the ground and knelt there as the temporal winds ripped at him threatening to tear him apart._

 _Pieces of him started to slip away, memories fading once again._

 _But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore._

 _The future that had been haunting him had finally found him and it was worse than he had imagined. He now knew who he truly was. He had always lived more in the dark than the light, and it seemed he would take that darkness with him wherever he went. What was the point in trying to survive when he was going to become something like that?_

 _In the distance, the clock ticked and the world shifted once more, but Rip barely noticed. He had already given up._


End file.
